Difference Always Matters
by carpetfibers
Summary: A tiny detail gives birth to a near gnawing obsession. When discovery proves it truth, a most unlikely partnership is made. But what difference could a school drop-out and a bookaholic really make? AU since HBP. COMPLETE
1. ONE

_**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. All rights and other such legal matters over ownership go to and are controled by J. K. Rowling. Lucky fizz that she is._

_**Brief note before reading:** As this looks to be rather long and drawn out, I much expect it to become AU once the sixth book is released. If this bothers you, I suggest you not read because DAM most likely won't be finished come July._

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**ONE**

_there always comes a middle_

**I**

"**I REALLY THINK **the original color was blue," Hermione remarked thoughtfully, her head poised to the side as she considered the peeling walls.

"Perhaps, but Mum hardly cares. She just wants it all cleaned up for Professor Lupin when he comes back. Blue, green, grey- doesn't really matter." Ginny ended her brief break from scrubbing the edging where the walls met the floor tiles and knelt back to retrieve her brush and bucket.

"I suppose..." Hermione sighed inaudibly; she never liked to leave details alone for the sake of the general picture. Yes, the point was to _clean_ the room, but she preferred to take care of everything now, rather than later. She returned to the various trunks and boxes that filled her responsibility.

Molly Weasley had woken both girls earlier that morning with two pails, a couple scrubbing brushes, and a bottle of _Ms. Abluo's Kwik-Kleen Solution_ in tow. Before either girl had a chance to rub the sleep from her eyes, Mrs. Weasley had foisted her supplies into their hands, mentioned a quickly cooling breakfast on the table, and that they "could start cleaning Remus's new rooms immediately."

The thought of Lupin's imminent return made Hermione's efforts pick up pace. It had been nearly a fortnight since the prematurely aged wizard had stood up from one of Molly's hearty meals and announced that he was taking Harry to see Godric's Hollow. His voice had brokered no contest, and yet, as usual, it was only Molly Weasley who seemed to have missed the intonation.

She had immediately started arguing, bringing up a good many points Hermione had worried up internally as well. Lupin hadn't said a thing in reply. He merely looked at the robust witch, his brown eyes oddly resigned and handed her an envelope, the hand writing immediately recognizable.

"Oh...Albus knows then?" the motherly woman had said weakly, and then she reseated herself, a slight wetness now coating her eyes. One of the newer members- a something Hedgefallow, Hermione believed- had patted her shoulder awkwardly before returning to his much cooled potatoes.

"Say 'hullo' to Harry for me, will you Remus?" Tonks had asked, her voice far too loud for the deafening silence that had filled the room.

Lupin nodded, and a slight smile vanished the worn lines from his eyes and cheeks momentarily. He left shortly after; Molly Weasley immediately burst into tears to the distress of the other Order members, and Hermione found herself inexplicably taking charge of washing all the dishes, refusing Tonks's offer of her wand to magick the dishes clean. It was only after two hours had passed that she realized that the sink had long been empty and the towel she had used to dry hadn't originally been so tattered.

Hermione yanked the lid up from one of the trunks, a cloud of dust and aged soot floating up before it resettled over her hair and shoulders. Muffling her sneeze, she reached for the books that filled it, the first moment of interest during the whole long morning finally coming to rise. She held the dusty tome up, her eyes widening at the lack of title. She was desperately curious to open it, but a few choice experiences with some of Grimmauld Place's other artifacts had taught her the careful lesson that curiosity was a dangerous thing around things both old and magic.

She gingerly placed the book alongside a growing stack of other objects she had deemed salvageable. To her right were the things that would soon find home in the rubbage bin: torn curtains, moldy robes, two boxes of crumbling parchment that were once upon a time charmed to smell like roses- although with time, the charm's strength had worn off and the soiled papers now carried a putrid moss odor that caused her nose to immediately crinkle in distaste.

"I don't think her idea's going to help much," Ginny began without preamble from her crouch at the floor. "You know, trying to make things look differently. Harry's still going to be reminded of S-" the girl's words faltered. "-of _him_ every time he comes here."

Hermione paused, Ginny's sudden conversation choice surprising her from her normal composure. She shook her head though and continued struggling with the massive texts that filled the seemingly endless chest. "I'm worried about that, too," she admitted.

Ginny's head sprung up at Hermione's words. "Worried? Why are you worried? I mean, obviously, Harry's going to be angry and moody again- jumping off at everyone, but that's to be expected."

"Actually, it's that I think Harry might see your mum's rearranging of everything as an attempt at wiping Sirius's memory away. I'm worried he might misunderstand."

Ginny's hands shook slightly at Hermione's mention of- even her thoughts seemed to stumble over his name. _Sirius!_ she intoned internally._ His name is, was, Sirius Black. It's just a name._ "I didn't think of that, but you're probably right. It's going to be hard, though, knowing how to act around Harry now. He was just _so_ angry last summer- I can't imagine what he's going to be like now."

"Act like you always do, Ginny. He's always appreciated how candid you are about things. Be his friend, let him scream, but don't let him walk all over you. Despite Sirius's death, Harry's still Harry." Hermione winced internally at how coolly her speech managed to pronounce Sirius's death as fact. She knew even with her back turned that Ginny's eyes would hold more than a touch of disapproval at her seeming coldness.

"You say that rather easily," Ginny said, a controlled lightness to her voice that made Hermione wince again.

"Yes, well, I suppose being matter of fact is my way to cope," Hermione countered, rather lamely in her own ears.

"Lucky you."

The comfortable atmosphere was now heavily ridden with the youngest Weasley's anger. The mood all but suffocated Hermione as she pulled the last of the books from the trunk and shoved it over with the rest of the emptied boxes and chests. She stepped into the hallway briefly, only meaning to take a few deep breaths before returning to the room and attempting to some how smooth things over with Ginny. There was still over a month left until school started, and as she was encamped in Grimmauld Place for all of those five weeks with Ginny as her roommate, she thought it best to try to keep their relationship on even ground.

Especially with Harry's promised return to the enchanted house in only a few days' time. The last thing he would need is having to play referee between Ginny's volatile temper and her own stubborn ways.

_And the last thing** I** would need is having the whole of Ginny's circle of protection fall on me with their wrath,_ she added mentally.

As Hermione readied herself to re-enter the room, a few choice complacatory phrases flitting about in her mind, she felt more than saw the sudden presence of another body to her left. Her body reacted without consideration: she whipped out her wand with one hand while the other jutted its elbow painfully into the person's stomach; one of her feet pivoted through the offender's legs and the other spun her round, her wand readied at throat level.

It was only as her eyes began to recognize the striped polo of George Weasley that she regained control of her body. With an annoyed frown, she stepped back, her hand to her chest to still her racing heartbeat.

"George Weasley," she stated almost accusingly, the annoyance she felt also present in her voice.

With a disarming grin- a smile, Hermione noted, that showed absolutely nothing of the Weasley boy's thoughts- George rubbed the spot in his stomach where Hermione's elbow had made contact with.

"Exactly right, and you're Hermione Granger," he returned, his finger pointing obligingly in her direction. "And while we're on the subject of stating the obvious, _you _have an exceptionally pointed elbow."

Hermione scowled. She never felt the calm assurance she felt with her other contemporaries when with one of the Weasley twins. She could never quite tell whether the subtleties she often saw in their jokes were in fact ever really there. It was, she admitted with more than a touch of irony, always difficult to tell if everything really was _just a joke_.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people," she said, stepping back to put more space between them.

"And you need to not be so tense. I have it on excellent authority that too much tension can lead to rather debilitating stomach trouble. Quite nasty, really."

"It's called 'alertness,'" she informed him absently. She had the feeling that something was missing...and then it came to her. "Your brother- Fred- where is he?"

She glanced back down the hall suspiciously, sure that any second now the other half of the twindom would come barreling out to tackle her with some new concoction or equally annoying creation.

"At the Burrow with Mum."

Hermione refocused on the current twin in front of her. Something in his tone sounded unnatural, but as she studied his freckled cheeks and steady grin, she shook it off. She had more important things to do than analyze the complicated relationships of any of the Weasley children.

"Do you know if she's planning on returning tonight, or do I need to take care of dinner?" she asked, her frown still in place.

"She left a note for Tonks to take care of dinner," George leaned back against the narrow hall's wall, mindful not to knock one of the many covered paintings that lined it.

Hermione's shoulders slumped. Tonks cooking equaled Hermione cooking; the clumsy Auror simply couldn't move in the kitchen without breaking half the dishes and then burning whatever was cooking in the other half. So the job inordinately went to her. Which wasn't too bad as she didn't mind cooking, not really at least. But it was an entirely different affair to cook for two or three as compared to the near dozen that cooking entailed at the Order's headquarters, especially when one didn't have magical means at her disposal.

George eyed the distracted girl in front of him thoughtfully, thankful that her eyes were elsewhere for the moment. Despite having been in Hermione's company for nearly six years, and having two years over her near sixteen, he couldn't help but feel inferior whenever he spoke with her. Almost unconsciously, he'd hear himself using words that never passed his lips before and almost struggling to not make a wisecrack of some sort.

He normally made a point of not speaking to her at all when alone. It was better for him if he simply tried deflecting her attentions onto one of his brothers or Ginny. He'd end up looking and sounding much like the fool he was sure she thought he was otherwise.

"Did you need something then?" Hermione asked pointedly, and George fought back the reactionary jerk her voice jolted through his knees.

"My sister," he said at last, albeit awkwardly as his first impulse had been to do as he would at any other time and mention his need of a test subject for one of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes newest creations: the _Mustache- Mint_, guaranteed to grant facial hair that lasts an hour, or at least he hoped. There were still a few more quirks to work out in the charm-

"George?" Hermione called out impatiently. He immediately blinked his eyes and returned to the present.

"I never knew you had such a fondness for my name, Granger," he teased and inwardly beat himself upside the head when he saw her scowl deepen even further. Right then.

"She's inside; we've been cleaning up Remus's rooms," she said, turning her back to him and re-entering the room.

George followed behind her, making note to never again let his mother rope him into making solo trips to the headquarters. His eyes widened when he finally noticed the room's much changed decor. Of course he hadn't been in the room since winter holiday, but he doubted Sirius was much for self motivated bouts of cleaning. He distinctly remembered the room as having a constant grey sheen to it, as if dust and age had combined into a new entity that had made its home over each and every object.

"George Weasley! How did I know that you'd show up once all the work was done? How very typical." Ginny stood up and deftly tossed her brush into the bucket.

"It's a talent, dear sister, an innate ability for a select few. I know how envy must burn in your heart to not be as blessed as your brother-"

Ginny neatly cut him off. "It's true; Charlie really is a fortunate one."

"Teeth are looking savage today, little Ginevra. Missing your usual chew toys?" George teased back.

"A bit." Ginny glanced in Hermione's direction briefly as if to say more, but then shook her head, her thoughts changing to a new direction. "Where's Mum?"

"As I've already enthralled Granger here with the details, Mum's at the Burrow as Dad's finally got a night off and will be home early."

Ginny let out a squeal of joy. "So it's dinner with just the family- finally!" Her eyes widened at Hermione's brief shuffling of feet, and she continued on hastily. "Not that I don't mind having others with us. It's great having you to spend the summer with, Hermione."

Hermione struggled up a wan smile, mindful that tensions were already strained enough as it was between herself and the younger girl. "It's alright, Ginny. I'm not the easiest person to live with- Lavender and Parvati have made that clear on more than one occasion." She meant the last bit to come off as a joke, but she obviously failed as both George's and Ginny's mouths curved downward into frowns.

"You should come, too," Ginny offered lamely, knowing that her voice more than showed what she really thought.

"No, really, this should be a family night for you all. " Hermione increased her smile as she added, "Besides, if I'm not here, Tonks'll cook and then the Order'll be both out of dishes and food." The obligatory laughter followed, albeit weakly. Thoroughly tired of having to watch her words and having spent a morning dancing around different topics with Ginny, Hermione gave up any pretenses of social ability and gestured toward the trunks.

"I think I'm done with digging through dust for today. I'll go catch up on some of my reading." She nodded briefly in farewell and didn't wait for either to return it before racing for the stairs, taking two at a time. She closed the library door solidly behind her and let out a breath of relief.

There were few times she wished she was someone else, but at that exact moment, Hermione wouldn't have minded to be a bit more like Ron; so lovingly oblivious that such a thing as social awkwardness would never be considered. Things like nuances and subtleties rolled off of Ron's shoulders like rain on the street. It would take the forming of a knee deep puddle before Ron would notice, and by then, he'd be too confused for it to matter.

She crossed the room and as habit often did in rooms filled with books, she quickly ran her finger down the many different spines, titles calling out to her and soon one would find itself in her grip. She would sit then, comfortable in one of the plushly filled chairs spelled with comfort charms, and pretend that the world outside of the room did not yet exist.

Cooking dinner wouldn't seem like so much of a chore by then.

**II**

"**THIS IS FANTASTIC, **Hermione," Tonks repeated for the third time during the short meal.

"It's not really hard to make. Just followed the recipe and put it in the oven..." Hermione mumbled, her cheeks flushed again from the unwanted praise.

"Take the compliment, young lady. You should never turn down the praises of a friend," Kingsley Shaklebolt admonished, his tone lightened by the warm smile that curved his mouth. "More often than not, it's criticism you'll receive as you get older, so take the flattery, especially when it's due."

Hermione's flush increased under the older wizard's gentle lecturing. She was unsure of yet on where she stood in Shaklebolt's and the other Order members' appraisal. A large part of her wanted to ask why there had been no remonstration over the raid in the Department of Mysteries, but that other part, the smaller self-protective part, was thankful that she had yet to be confronted with her failure in judgment.

"Hush now, Kingsley. It's my fault for gushing over chicken." Tonks swivelled in her seat to face Hermione. "You have understand though, I find it amazing when anyone can manage that oven and not come out with a giant burnt pile of bones and dry skin."

"True, I have seen your skills when it comes to cooking. I've never witnessed something quite as painful as your attempt at boiling pasta," added a deep voice good naturedly.

Tonks stared for a moment at the unabashed grin of the newly returned Sturgis Podmore before breaking out in her usual loud laughter.

"I never was very good at those householdy spells," she admitted cheerfully.

Hermione kept her eyes downward, but as the others' attention returned to their meal, she snuck a glimpse at the strong jawed face of Sturgis Podmore. Nearly eight months ago, the wizard had been framed with trying to break into Ministry secrets and then sentenced to a six month term in Azkaban. Naturally, after his release, Podmore found himself jobless, homeless, and penniless as the Ministry had seized his private accounts and held them under one of the treasury office's many technicalities.

She wasn't sure of the specifics, but Dumbledore had managed to get Podmore hired at a local muggle accounting firm, just a few blocks from the hidden Headquarters. Hermione remembered her first glimpse of the wizard nearly a month after his release; he was thin as a rail, mostly bones and skin, and his eyes had the same haunted look that Sirius used to have. Thankfully, the past few months had added the much needed weight gain and his voice no longer shook when speaking. He lived in the Headquarters now and took his dinner in the kitchen with the rest of the members currently in transit.

"-received your results yet, then?"

Hermione returned to the present and blinked uncomprehendingly at the seven faces that were now turned in her direction.

"Sorry, I was wool gathering," she said, embarrassment once again lighting her cheeks with a red flush.

"Your O.W.L.s; have you received your marks yet?" Hestia Jones repeated kindly.

"No, not yet."

"I 'member my O.W.L.s; nasty things, those 'ere," announced Mundungus Fletcher from his sweltering heap of rags at the end of the table. Those closest to him were naturally seated at least three feet from his remarkable odor.

Tonks giggled and nodded to her wand pointedly. "I wouldn't think you'd have much use for your wand, 'Dung."

From what could be seen of his face, Mundungus's beady eyes rolled thoughtfully. "'Idn't 'ave much use for 'figuration or 'stronomy, but those charms and potions- now, they're mighty 'andy."

"How 'bout you, Kingsley? How'd you fare back in the old days?" Tonks asked teasingly, having pushed her plate aside.

The tall black wizard's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Far too long ago for me to remember, _Nymphadora_."

The surprise of hearing her first name sent Tonks into a crash as her chair skipped up from underneath her.

"It's 'Tonks,' Kingsley," she mumbled as she picked herself up from the floor. Once reseated, she refixed her attentions on Hermione. "You want to be an Auror, right Hermione?"

Hermione glanced nervously in the others' direction. Hestia Jones had returned to her conversation with a slight, pointy chinned witch, Abatha Lee over hybrid stunning charms that were currently being developed in an independent study at Oxford. Hedgefallow- Elliot! she now remembered- was using his spoon to model a quidditch move to Mundungus who grunted a few times in encouragement. The rest though- Shaklebolt, Tonks, and Podmore- were focused intently on her answer.

"I'm not too sure, actually," she finally admitted, staring at her empty plate and wishing she had accepted Ginny's invitation from earlier.

Tonks frowned, obviously confused. "But I thought that's what you and Harry and Ron were all on about last summer. Being Aurors and all."

"Well, yes, Harry wants to be one, and I'm fairly sure Ron wants to as well, but I'm undecided of yet," Hermione explained.

"Very wise," Podmore nodded approvingly. "You're only in sixth year, after all. If you keep up with Defense, Charms, and Potions, your course of study needn't change if you do decide on becoming an Auror in your seventh."

Hermione smiled weakly, inwardly praying that they would all return to their adult conversations and pretend that she wasn't there like usual. Perhaps it was because none of the Weasley children were at dinner that they were paying her so much attention. Normally, it was only Tonks who greeted her during the meal, asking about the cleaning and adding encouragement on her studies. Shaklebolt had spoken to her a token handful of times, each time relating to whatever book she had propped up during the meal.

The rest of the time, the adults kept conversation amongst themselves, and the 'children,' as she, Ginny, Ron, and even the twins were dubbed, were left to their own devices. Hermione preferred it that way, because although she was considered the 'adult' one in her group, her age never felt like more of a handicap than when one of the Order members decided to remember her existence.

"It's not only Aurors who fight, though. Simply because they're not up in the front lines doesn't mean that the medizardry, potion makers, curse breakers, charm crafters, and others are any less important. It'd be to no end if we all were brandishing our wands, ducking spells, and shouting hexes. There must also be those to do the thinking that the actions require." The table grew quiet once Shaklebolt finished his small speech.

Oddly enough, the existence of the War was rarely admitted to directly. The subject was usually skipped over and hedged around. It was like the analogy of the elephant in the room, only Voldemort's particular brand of elephant could no longer be ignored, even by those willfully ignorant. At the end of the school term, the Ministry and Fudge publically admitted to Voldemort's return; no one could deny the truth now and not look the fool.

Wanting to ease the tension and gloom that now hung like an unwanted sheath over the table's occupants, Hermione rose and made to start clearing the table. As she expected, Tonks immediately followed her example and dropped four plates in the process.

"Er, sorry 'bout that," Tonks stammered after the fourth plate crashed into the stone floor.

Hermione grinned widely, happy that some things would never change. "If you'd do a _scourgify_ for me, I can take care of the rest," she offered.

Wisely, those still at the table stood quickly and said their 'good evenings' and 'until tomorrows.' Only Mundungus stayed behind, the absence of his putrid scented pipe signaling his deep slumber.

"_Scourgify!_" Tonks called, and the plates, utensils, table top, and even Mundungus himself were coated in a twinkling sheen as the cleaning charm magicked all the dirt away. Mundungus blinked awake and let out a small cry as he took in his starched and now completely refuse free clothes. For the first time, Hermione was able to make out his face and was pleasantly surprised to see pudgy, good natured cheeks and a squat nose rounded out by a thick beard.

"My clothes! What 'ave you done to 'em?" he asked, a woeful tone to his voice that caused Hermione to bite down on her cheek to stifle her laughter.

"Sorry, 'Dung. Said I wasn't too handy at those cleaning charms," Tonks explained with a shrug of her shoulders. She obligingly roped an arm over the short wizard's now odor free shoulders and guided him toward the one of the sitting rooms. She sent a brief wave in Hermione's direction as she rounded the corner.

Hermione turned to finish stacking the plates, her smile mellowing in the now emptied room. There were times, such as now, that she thought the age restriction on magic use a bit ridiculous. It'd make far more sense to limit the magic use to certain spells. After all, what was there about the age of eighteen that suddenly gave the wizard or witch the right amount of maturity to wield their wands properly?

She closed the cupboard with a sigh and leaned back against the counter, relishing the sight of the empty room with satisfaction. The kitchen in 12 Grimmauld Place was of a very unique sort, especially in comparison to the archaic dungeon it was last summer. At some point before her arrival, someone had- very wisely in her opinion- made the addition of a muggle oven and stove top. While the ice box was still of an odd decade or two old, it had at least been charmed to keep its contents cool. She had her suspicions on which wizard it was to spell the icebox, though. Arthur Weasley had been looking quite proud when he showed her the icebox's charmed frost-free interior.

"Miss Granger?" a polite voice interrupted her musings from the doorway.

Hermione shook her head free from its musing and greeted the much freckled face of Elliot Hedgefallow. "It's Hermione, Elliot."

"Well, yes, Hermione, then. Ah, there's a letter for you. From your parents, I believe," the young wizard added helpfully.

Hermione's mood went up by the bounds. A letter from her parents! She hadn't even realized she missed them until now. "Thanks Elliot. It's in the foyer, I take it?"

"By the fireplace; Professor Snape dropped it through the floo," Hedgefallow explained, a small wrinkle of embarrassment forming across his nose at his titled reference to Severus Snape, his once professor.

Hermione nodded again and hurried past him, through the now portrait free hallway and into the comfortably arranged foyer. Molly Weasley had tackled it over a year ago with her well stocked arsenal of sprays and solutions. The only unwanted guest that remained of the previously infested room was the faint shade of a former house guest who had the unfortunate experience of having splinched himself while in a hurry to get to his office. While not fully a ghost, the wizard's shade could at times offer up a decent sort of conversation, although he tended to prattle on about import tariffs and the unfair sanctions placed by Turkey on international rug specs.

The shade was absent tonight, much to Hermione's preference, as she retrieved her letter. Plopping herself down into one of the armchairs, she opened it eagerly, a slight frown marring her features as she read the first lines.

_Dearest Hermione,_

_Now, don't worry, but last night we had to take Jamie to the hospital. While shopping down in Knottsbury, she knocked over a book stand and inhaled too much of the dust. She's fine now, a bit pale, but safe. The doctor said that it was only an asthma attack, nothing unusual about it. They took some x-rays; we'll get the results in two days, but again, the doctor assured us that there's nothing to be worried about._

_Sweetie, your father and I don't want you to hurry home; we aren't there at the moment, actually. We're staying at the Falstaff Inn on Cromston and Third. Jamie did say though that she wanted to see you, so if you could arrange to meet with us tomorrow in Trafalgar square?_

_We weren't sure if you had a phone available, so if you decide to 'owl' us as you call it, do try to keep it discreet. The proprietor was most curious of the large black owl this morning. Your father told him that he was a bird keeper and he'd just set it free after mending its wing._

_Well, dear, we hope that you're enjoying yourself. Do pass on our 'hellos' to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and tell them how much we liked their nutcake they sent last week. Jamie's still clamoring for another piece._

_We love you and look forward to seeing you tomorrow,_

_Mum and Dad_

_P.S._

_Hullo Hermione!_

_Mum said I could leave a note at the end. The hospital's great fun; the nurses all sneak me sweets when Mum's not looking. Uh-oh...forgot that she might be reading this. Oh well...perhaps you could drop me a few of those chocolate frogs?_

_See you tomorrow!_

_Jamie_

Hermione reread the letter, this time searching between the careful words her mother wrote. Jamie hadn't had an asthma attack since she was at least four- and her sister was nearing eleven. Her frown deepened. Suddenly, she wished to be back with her parents, able to question the doctor herself and see Jamie's small, pixie shaped face. Words were little assurance.

"Good news, I hope?" Elliot Hedgefallow popped into the door frame, much like how he entered the kitchen, with a half hesitant bob. Wordlessly, Hermione gestured for his entrance.

"My little sister had an asthma attack yesterday. My parents are going to meet me in Trafalgar square tomorrow," she explained tonelessly, her mind far more occupied with her sister. She hoped that Hedgefallow was familiar enough with muggle ailments that a definition of asthma wouldn't be needed.

Fortune was in her favor, for the freckled wizard nodded knowingly. "You'll be needing an escort then, I take it?"

She shook her head, again a bit distracted. "No, no- I know my way about London. I'll just need someone to apparate with me outside and retrieve me later tomorrow night."

Hedgefallow's thin lips narrowed into a frown. "I don't think Dumbledore will want you to go about unescorted."

"Really, Elliot, unless there's some danger that I'm not already aware of lurking about, I'm certain the Order needn't waste a member to play babysitter with me tomorrow," Hermione said, a bit more snappish than she intended.

Hedgefallow's cheeks reddened predictably. "Listen, Miss Granger-"

"It's Hermione, _Elliot_," she interrupted irritably. The formality was ridiculous- the wizard was only five years older than her, hardly ranking seniority.

"-you can't be allowed to wander about London unprotected. You're not allowed to do magic until you're of age, and whatever muggle means you may have will hardly give you proper protection from a Death Eater." His last words came out suitably serious and instantly, Hermione felt ashamed.

How dare she act so childishly when it was such lofty independence that led to the Department of Mysteries debacle. Hurtfully, her mind inflicted, _And Sirius's death- don't forget that bit._

"You're right. I'm sorry, Elliot. I'm being foolish," Hermione apologized, her brown eyes reading over the letter yet again. "I won't stay long then, so I won't use up too much of whoever comes with me's time."

Instantly, the newest Order member's indignant flush eased. "It's alright; I can imagine it gets a bit tiresome. But it is all for the best, so we must make do."

"Yes, I suppose we must," she agreed.

The conversation was clearly ended and Hedgefallow quickly made his departure mumbling a 'good night' as he removed himself from the frame. Hermione stared into the fireplace, half hoping that Snape's familiar visage would pop through, another letter in hand, this one saying that Jamie was home, tucked into bed, and the unsaid two night stay in the hospital completely put to rest.

But just as Professor Snape was wont to do, her hopes were not met. There was only the flicker of flame, unmarred by a green shadow that would promise another addition to 12 Grimmauld Place. She sighed and then resolutely pocketed the letter, tucked her unkempt hair behind her ears, and left, deciding that she'd save her worries for the morning.

Night was better spent sleeping. It wouldn't do to yawn all day tomorrow.

**III**

**THERE WAS ONLY **one member missing from the Weasley table that night. Only one empty chair to cause a slight dip in Molly Weasley's nearly glowing smile as she served her family her lovingly fixed meal. There was the usual amount of bickering; snorted laughter and shouts of '_Poor Ickle Ronnikins'_ and _'Mum! Fred switched my wand again!'_ But Molly took in all in stride. There was little enough of her family meeting as one that she could put up with a bit of normal banter and teasing.

Her husband smiled warmly as he tucked into the roast beef and potatoes that filled his plate. The past month had been filled with late nights at the Ministry, frequent meetings at the Headquarters, and far too much traveling to wizards' homes to check on reports of possible dark magic use. He rarely made it to meal times, and even though Molly always had a warm dinner waiting him, there was nothing that could make up for having his children and wife around the table, talking and laughing.

Arthur Weasley shoveled in another fork full and turned to his two oldest sons and quickly joined in their discussion.

"She claims her parents don't approve of her getting serious while so young," Bill stated glumly. "She says they want her to experience life before buckling down and starting a family."

"I didn't know it was that serious, son," Arthur remarked, eyebrows raised.

Bill shifted and quickly checked that his mother's attention was elsewhere before explaining his quickly deteriorating relationship with Fleur Delacour. "It's not; at least, I didn't think it was. We rarely see each other as it is, but since I've transferred here to London, Fleur keeps on bringing up her parents."

"It sounds like she's trying to let you down easy, Bill," Charlie suggested gently, his fork traded for his brother's shoulder momentarily.

"I know, I know...I like her and all, and she certainly is attractive-"

"I'll say! She is part _veela_ afterall!" Charlie interjected, a knowing grin on his face.

"Yes, yes she is," Bill continued after dropping his fork, annoyed. "There's more to her though-"

"Oh yes, I nearly forgot. There's her _dazzling_ intellect and warm, unpretentious manner. She practically a madonna."

"Sarcasm, Charles Andrew Weasley, has never been your strong suit," Bill tried to scold, but his full toothed grin gave way to his good natured acceptance. After all, Charlie's insinuation wasn't false. Fleur, at best, was described as aristocratic. At worst, she was called a heinous b-

"What's this about you coming to Hogwarts, Charlie?" a voice called out from the other end of the table.

"Yeah, are you going to teach?" asked another.

Charlie finished chewing and swallowed, using the time to figure out which twin was which. Really, he would have thought that having graduated- well...that wasn't quite right- but regardless, surely at their age they'd have learned to dress differently.

"The one with sauce on his chin is Fred," Ginny provided helpfully, a knowing grin stretched across her cheeks.

"You're a gem, Gin." Now having the full table's attention, Charlie decided the time was right for his announcement. They'd all know the full of it in another week or two anyway. "Dumbledore's asked me to come and assist Hagrid with the Care of Magical Creatures class." He continued his explanation before the avalanche of questions- and teasing; mustn't forget the twins!- descended. "The details aren't decided yet. I don't know what my full duties will be, but yes, Ron, Ginny, you'll be seeing alot more of me."

"That's bloody brilliant!" Ron exclaimed and the logical reaction followed.

"_Ronald Weasley!_ Your language!" His mother cried. Immediately, the freckled teen winced. "Just because you're away from home for nine months out of the year gives you no leave to speak as though you were raised in the gutter. Do you speak like this in public? Imagine the impression you must leave..." Ron's wincing deepened as he tried to ward off his mother's ire.

"Are you going to live at Hogwarts, then?" Ginny asked quickly in between her mother's lecturing and promised punishments for Ron's momentary lapse in meal etiquette. Charlie tried answering his sister's questions, and Fred suddenly caught wind of the resurged 'Fleur' discussion at the table's other end. Words flew as was usual during a full membered Weasley meal. The noise and its various volumes was very familiar.

With everyone caught up in their exchanges, it was no wonder that George was able to slide from his seat without being noticed. It wouldn't be until close to eleven that Molly Weasley would suddenly exclaim that one of her children was missing.

**IV**

**IT WAS AN **exceptionally odd place to be on a Tuesday, regardless of the late hour. It was made even more bizarre as a choice for locale considering the person. Not to say that the British Wizarding Archive was above the interests and considerations of this particular wizard; no...no one would be so hasty as to say that. Rather, one might have found the whole situation peculiar simply because the purpose of the visit had absolutely nothing to do with the fabrication of a future WWW product.

No, the purpose of George Weasley's visit was of an entirely different nature.

He couldn't quite pinpoint the exact moment that he developed the obsession- because that's what it was now. An obsession. He couldn't put the idea away. It bothered him at meals, at work, playing quidditch, while avoiding his mother's chores- nearly every minute of the day.

Fred hadn't understood his preocupation in the least when he had mentioned it nearly a month earlier. His brother had said something along the lines of:

"He's dead. We all liked him a lot; but he's dead, George. There's no way around it."

So Fred hadn't understood. Of course though, he hardly understood, himself. He hardly understood how he could possibly be so absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain that Sirius Black was not dead.

Sirius might not be alive, but George was convinced he was also not dead.

The idea caught root from such a simple thing, too. Hardly monumental enough to have created such certainty in his mind, really. But, it was there all the same: Sirius Black was still on the Ministry's wanted list. They were still searching for him. And that meant that they didn't know _Sirius Black was dead!_ Which was impossible.

Wizarding ways, in comparison to the muggle world, can appear fairly archaic. George remembered enough from muggle studies and his father's indulgences to understand that the muggles often compensated for their lack of magic with science. They used their 'science' to recreate much of what could be instantly manifested through magic. In many ways, their recreations were rather ingenious.

However, there was one area that muggles would never get a handle on without magic. For wizards could tell instantly when another of their kind had died. It was how properties and legacies were handled in the absence of written wills. It was how, despite distance and lack of communication, a person's death was made public in the post. It was how the Ministry could remove a witch or wizard from their most wanted list without having found a body.

It was, very simply, because no wizard or witch could die without it being made into the Book of Records.

The Book of Records kept account of every person born with magical ability. The Book of Records added to family lines each continued birth within that blood line. With muggleborn births, a new tree was created. And when any of those recorded died, their name was inscribed neatly into a finished branch. The Ministry, when necessary, had only have a name marked, and when said name ceased to exist, they would know.

So, George reasoned, if Sirius Black was dead, the Ministry would know. Right?

Right. And that's what had him, at nearing midnight on this Tuesday night, pouring through the thousands of pages that filled the Book of Records. He only had another hour left before the polyjuice wore off, so he was trying his best not to cross his eyes as the names and webs of lines connecting families with other families swarmed up into one giant congealed black splotch.

The polyjuice was, unfortunately, necessary. Not just anyone could stroll into the Archives, cart out the massive text, and peruse its pages. While his forging skills were above par, his natural appearance hardly warranted credibility, and so it was that on this particular night, George Weasley had morphed into his taciturn neighbor, Borgin Hatcher. He knew little personally of Hatcher, other than that the man never changed his socks and had several nasty hexes placed on his windows- oh, and the very handy fact that Hatcher was a contributing writer for the Daily Prophet's orbituary and birth pages.

Hatcher's convenient profession was perhaps his best attribute in George's opinion.

And so this was his fourth trip to the Archives in the past two weeks. The first night had grown from a whim of an idea. The second was birthed from the hastily drawn conclusion that as he had already started, he might as well finish... But the third gave way to acceptance.

He would not be content until he had proven, one way or another, that Sirius Black was indeed dead.

All the many possible ramifications that could come from the possibility of Sirius being, well, _not dead_ were being ignored for the moment. There were only so many headaches George could take, after all.

He sighed and itched his borrowed nose, wincing at the dry, papery feel of the skin. There was still an hour left. And maybe, tonight, he'd finally find that damned tree. After all, wasn't the Black line supposed to be grand and illustrious or some other such rot?

_Damned book_, he thought irritably,_ you'd think someone would have charmed you to be alphabetical, not chronological._

Still though, he poured on, driven by a need he hardly understood and seen by no one. There were only the silent stacks of ancient records and forgotten laws, all dimly illuminated by the flicker of jarred bluebell flames. Perhaps this hour might bring revelation.

Chances were, though, that it'd only bring more of a headache. Thankfully, this knowledge hardly bothered George. One didn't become the maker of pranks and trick candies without a great deal of patience.

_there always comes a middle_

**ONE**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

07SEPT04

0259


	2. TWO

_**Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me, except, of course, what does._

_**A/N:** Many thanks go out to: DyingRoses, kirjava2, threepastmidnight, Sandra18, Jade, BrItTsR, LupinFan227, Kou Shun'u, Gerontius T._

**Difference Always Matters**

_by s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**TWO**

_it's in between the minutes_

**I**

**GODRIC'S HOLLOW STOOD** in silent repose. The dew glistened as morning slowly climbed and finished its recoloring of the horizon. Harry had tried refusing at first. He argued that he wouldn't be safe; he tried threatening even. But nothing he said deterred Remus Lupin from his object.

"You're coming with me to see Godric's Hollow," he had told Harry.

And so Harry went, unwillingly and frightened beyond his wits. His nightmares had always created Godric's Hollow as a dank, dark place, filled with shadows and screams of pain. It was none of those things in the morning light. There remained as memory of the horrors that took part on its grounds only the remains of a house. Beyond the broken stone grew only the wild grasses of the moor lands.

Only grass and stone, dampened by the dew; nothing else.

Harry felt angry, disappointed, and a whole other multitude of complicated emotions that he could no more explain than understand. Why should it look so innocent? Why should a place that held the deaths of his parents and whatever happiness he might have had with them look so _normal_? It was childish to feel so, but it was _so unfair_.

"It's yours now," Lupin said, his voice sounding farther away than two feet. "It's held in a wizarding trust by Gringott's until you're of age, but for all purposes, it's yours."

"Mine? Why would I want it?" Harry spat out, the words as distasteful as the idea to him.

"It was once a place your parents loved; your father grew up here- whole long lines of the Potter family were born and raised here."

"Yeah, well, I may have been born here but I certainly wasn't raised."

Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, thankful for once that his second hand clothes were several sizes too large. Lupin couldn't see his fists there, tightly curled with nails that drew blood from their lodge in his palms.

"Harry-" Lupin tried to say, but Harry cut him off.

"Just leave it alone, Professor. I don't have any memories of this place- no, wait..." He broke off, a sarcastic edge added to his tone before he continued. "That's not true. I have the very clearmemory of my mother's scream as she was murdered. Not exactly what I would call a _fond memory_, but I suppose you take what you can get."

"Harry-" again though, Harry interrupted.

"I said to leave it alone! Just leave it alone! That's all I want- for everyone to leave me alone. Sirius is dead, because of me! Cedric died because of me! My father, my mother- dead because of me! Don't you see the pattern? People die because of me. I don't even have to know them well or love them- Voldemort kills them all. So I don't care about Godric's Hollow. I don't care if my parents lived here, or were happy here. I DON'T CARE!"

For a long, empty stretch of time there was only the heavy rush of Harry's breathing and the whispering of overgrown moor grass. Silence drew on and on and on- Harry hated it. The silence was wrong- the way he felt now, there should be storm clouds and thunder. The violence that felt so palpable to his blood didn't match the calm stirrings of the grass or the hazy blue of the morning sky.

It was as if nature was scolding him.

"Harry, answer me this, and we'll leave here and not mention it again. Only-" Lupin broke off, his voice sounding defeated and indescribably old. "Be honest when you answer. Can you do that?"

Harry blinked furiously, hating the vulnerability created by Lupin's gentle tones. "Yes."

"Is it that you don't care, or that you wish you didn't?" Lupin asked, and with those few words, the violence in Harry's chest melted completely.

"I- I...Professor, that is, I-" Harry closed his eyes, finding a welcome safety in the darkness. "Tell me, please...why? Why did he die? Not whose fault it is, not how- but why should he have died? Why him? Why?"

Lupin took no steps to console Harry; he didn't near or offer his arms for comfort. He simply stood, in empathic quiescence, knowing that there was no physical solace he could offer. He had only words, but he hoped words would be enough.

"There's right and wrong, good and bad in this world. We like to think that good and right fall hand in hand, and wrong and bad follow the same lines. But we forget, too easily, that the greatest wrongs always occur when the good suffer having done what's right."

"Even with Voldemort defeated, it won't change, will it?" Harry asked, the anger fading with each passing minute. His heart didn't feel as...raw. The wound was still there, deep and bleeding, but it was no longer foreign. The hurt felt as familiar as breathing, as familiar as speech.

"It's not something we can control, Harry. As long as there are those who use what is noble in ourselves to do evil, there will be good people who suffer, who hurt, and who die."

"How...how then do we survive it? Does it never stop hurting?"

Lupin finally dragged his eyes away from the rubble lined horizon and met Harry's gaze. The anger left Harry completely as a surge of empathy flooded his emotions. Of course, of course...of all the people who could understand, this man, this wizard surely understood the best.

"No, Harry, it doesn't. The loss and the frustration of injustice don't fade. They become part of your thoughts, your dreams, even coloring your speech. But Harry," and the sadness in Lupin's smile twisted at Harry's heart more than crumbled ruins that once made his parents' home did, "I wouldn't want the pain to stop. It reminds me of why it's important to keep fighting, to keep living. If you give up, it's like saying everything they did, everything that was sacrificed, was for nothing. And that is a knowledge too terrible to survive."

The words faded, until, much like the dew, they evaporated into a different existence. With their departure, Lupin once again picked up his careful guiding of Harry around the expansive lands that made up his inheritance.

Harry squinted through his lenses as a stretch of sunlight shot through the morning haze. It was nearly overhead now; had time really gone so quickly? Two hours vanished in what felt like minutes if not seconds. He lowered his gaze back to the ground, to the weed ridden stones that had made up the foundation of the Potter manor.

A thought struck him, surprising him by its newness. Why hadn't he ever thought to ask before?

"Professor?"

"It's Remus, Harry. I'm no longer your professor," Lupin reminded him, his voice still too tired for Harry's preference.

"Remus then. What happened to the rest of my family? That is, my grandparents," he asked, not quite brave enough to finish the rest of the thought: _how did they die?_

"Your father's parents?" Harry wondered why Lupin sounded so surprised by the question.

"Yes, my dad's parents; I know they aren't alive-"

"Actually, Harry," Lupin interrupted slowly, "We don't know that; your grandparents haven't been seen for over 17 years."

"I don't understand." He was sure they had died! Hadn't- that is, hadn't someone told him that? He couldn't remember...

Lupin stared into the sky, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. "The Potters disappeared shortly after the new year, 1979, a few weeks after your parents' marriage."

"Disappeared? As in vanished or as in left on vacation and never returned? Were they kidnaped?" The questions came out faster than Harry could mouth them, his mind light years ahead of his speech.

"We don't know; James and Lily returned from holiday in Switzerland and found the house empty. Nothing was missing, nothing was disturbed. There were no signs of dark magic- any magic at all in fact. The only thing out of place were your grandparents."

"Why wasn't I ever told this?" Harry asked slowly, his mind still puzzling over this new knowledge.

"I don't know- I had assumed you already knew," Lupin's thoughtful gaze settled back on Harry. "I can only imagine Dumbledore had his reasons."

"Of course he did. He always has his reasons, doesn't he..." Harry muttered.

"Albus Dumbledore is a great wizard, a great man, but there are times when I believe he forgets that responsibility does not rest with him alone." Lupin prodded Harry forward with his hand, urging him to continue the circling of the grounds. "It's an arrogance that all too often the kind suffer from: this belief that ignorance can indeed be a blessing. There will be many more times that you'll have to forgive Dumbledore for caring too much, Harry."

Harry didn't answer, but he didn't reject Lupin's words either. He remembered his anger so clearly, his certainty in his sole guilt- and then he remembered the sorrow peaked in the tears of a great wizard and yet still, old man.

"So they could still be alive then?" Harry asked, careful to keep the hope from his voice.

Lupin's hand tightened on his shoulder, as if in reassurance. "There is the possibility. But remember, people don't vanish for nearly 18 years without reason. If your grandparents are still alive, they've kept silent through their son's death and through their grandson's birth."

"But they could have been in hiding!"

"And not have returned after Voldemort's first defeat?" Lupin interjected shortly. "I don't think it's as simple as that, Harry."

"Maybe their secret keeper died?" Harry asked, the hopefulness he was trying to hide resounding noisily.

Lupin shook his head, an understanding smile curving his lips. "I don't know."

Harry's foot fell into suddenly loose soil. He glanced down, surprised. He was standing in the midst of a large rectangular plot of seemingly worked soil. The moor grass that grew so prolifically over the grounds had stopped at the plot's edges.

"James' garden," Lupin explained softly. "Your father had a weakness for growing things, particularly flowers . I remember when Sirius found out about it- he wasted no time in charming squeaking posies that sang: 'Jamsie, Jamsie, give us a whiff!' James was embarrassed at first, but after Lily mentioned how much she loved to garden herself...let's just say that your father suddenly embraced Herbology like it was oxygen itself."

Harry laughed abruptly, the sound surprising and then horrifying. How could he laugh about that? When all three of those people were dead- no, worse- _murdered_ because of him.

"It's alright to laugh, Harry. Sirius was always laughing- he and your father, those two laughed more than anyone had right to. I've always wondered if perhaps, some part of them, knew that they wouldn't have as much time as the rest of us... I've always thought that your mother knew. There was a knowing in her eyes, an awareness she carried that-" the older wizard broke off, and shook his head as if clearing away the thought.

"That was Lily for you; her confidence was, at times, almost wondrous."

Harry stared back at the soil bed before hesitantly bowing down to touch the dirt. It clung to his fingers, rich in moisture and fertility. He dug farther into the soil, imagining his father having once done the same, having once too run his fingers through the damp earth and feeling the potential that hid there.

It struck him, like a slap in the face, that his father would have taught him how to grow plants in this very plot had he lived. A hundred different could have and should have memories skimmed over his vision; the images created from the few pictures Harry owned and the day dreams he used to indulge in while stuffed beneath the stairs in that dank closet.

It was an old ache, this pain, but still fragrant enough to wrench at his heart.

"I'm sorry, Remus, for what I said earlier." Harry didn't have to clarify what he was apologizing for. The plot of earth had said all the things that needed to be said, and now, Harry understood. "Can it be rebuilt?"

Lupin smiled, a much different smile from before, the age and weariness vanished away by the slight lifting of his lips and softening of his eyes. Once again, Harry felt the iron ball in his stomach ease into something far less tangible.

"Oh yes, Harry, it can be rebuilt. You can design the house however you wish, but your vault holds the original blue prints and diagrams. Godric's Hollow can be remade."

Harry scooped a handful of the soil into his pocket and closed his hand around it. Perhaps this could be the thing he looked forward to after- after everything. He glanced once more over the crumbled foundation, the stones pitted and littered by sixteen years of weather and age. Dimly, and shadowed by so many unknowns, the image of the once grand manor built itself over the ruined stones. His breath caught and with a lightness he couldn't bear to tarnish with guilt, he grinned.

He could have a home; for the first time in his life, he could truly have a home.

"Thanks Remus."

"You're welcome."

**II**

**IT MADE SENSE**, in an odd ironic sort of way, that Hermione should survive all sorts of encounters with the world's most dangerous wizard to only then fall near victim to the rampage of an errant taxi driver.

She had been waiting, somewhat impatiently, for her 'baby-sitter' as she had aptly named the somewhat pompous Order member assigned to accompany her to visit her parents and sister. Auvios Saxate Aalamire, or 'Auvi' as he preferred, had apparently found his task several pars beneath his worth and after depositing Hermione into her parents' care, had made haste for the nearest deli in search for proper sustenance.

It had been bad enough that she had to deal with 'Call me Auvi's' obvious disdain for his assignment, but when he had started in on her cooking ability, she was but a few seconds from losing all self control and hexing him soundly with a silencing charm, Ministry laws thrown to the wind. So, after several pointed comments on his part about needing to find some 'decent nosh' combined with her vocal encouragements on being quite content without his presence, Auvios Saxate Aalamire took off.

Hermione quickly found her parents, and after being embraced by them both, made a thorough perusal of her little sister, Jamie. Although a tad too pale for her liking, Hermione quickly pronounced Jamie as being as 'pixie-ish' as ever and certainly not in need of any get-well-soon gifts.

The two hours passed far too quickly, and after reassuring family et al that she was safe and enjoying her summer, Hermione once again hugged her parents and slipped her sister a package of chocolate frogs. She would have liked to spend some more time visiting, but Auvi had been explicit on the time restraints.

So it was with poorly masked displeasure that Hermione found herself waiting for her _protector_, who, by the last glance at her watch, was running 49 minutes and 32 seconds late. She was so intent in her annoyance and continued scanning of the crowds that she didn't notice the taxi until it was nearly on her.

Of course, though, if she had been left entirely to her devices, the perilous vehicle would have sent her flying across the square in a tangled heap of bones and bruises.

As it was, most thankfully, the fates had put her designation into much more capable hands- well, at least hands more capable than hers at that moment.

The horn blared, and Hermione reared her head up only in time to see the wide eyes of the much too close driver and a sudden blur of brown stripes sweep across her vision before her body was flung sideways. She crashed painfully into the pebbled sidewalk, her elbows becoming unwanted friends with the harsh surface, but her head landed in something far softer than the expected asphalt.

When an audible grunt met her ears, her mind absently noted that someone had conveniently softened her fall.

"Oy, Granger, I don't know whether to thank you or yell at you for not sharing my family's enthusiasm for meal times."

The recognition was instantaneous.

"George? George Weasley?" Hermione cried, rather stunned.

"At your service," he said with as much flourish as could be allowed whilst laying prone on the ground, a young woman's head pillowed in his stomach.

As if following the train of such thoughts, Hermione hastily pulled herself up, admirably hiding the aches her body discovered with the movement. George quickly mirrored her evolution, although he made no pretense of disguising the new bruises he carted.

"Are you alright?" he asked after a few awkward moments passed.

Hermione paused before answering; she was still tackling her near miss with the automobile. "Er...yes; at least, I think so."

"Well, that's good then," George replied lamely.

The awkwardness began to enter its intolerable stage just as both decided to end it.

"What are you-"

"What happened just-"

George cleared his throat as Hermione rubbed at her raw elbow.

"You first," he offered.

Hermione shrugged, gesturing toward the teaming curbside. "What happened just now? I completely missed everything up to when you, er, saved me."

George cleared his throat again, keeping his eyes fixed on an exceptionally uninteresting mound of grass. "One of the Muggle cars swerved into the wrong lane, and the taxi came up on the curb to miss the other car. I was walking up from the opposite side of the square having spotted you and arrived just in time to push you out of the way."

"Oh," and Hermione beat herself mentally for her articulate response. '_Or lack there of!'_ she intoned mutely. "Thank you, then. I should have paid better attention."

"It's a necessary quality when performing heroic acts, you know- impeccable timing. Takes a great deal of practice. I'm rather indebted to you now, Granger, for having given me such an excellent opportunity," George teased.

For the third time, the uncomfortable silence descended, almost vindictive in its parading.

"What were you asking?" Hermione asked, her voice abrupt.

"Yes, that." He eyed her curiously as the question he had wondered since first spotting her from across the people strewn square earlier reminded him of its existence. "What are you doing here?"

He cringed inwardly at the curtness of his words. He sounded about as suave and smooth as...well, as Ron!

It didn't seem to phase Hermione though, for she answered without pause. "I met with my parents and sister; just a quick visit to catch up on things." She continued as if feeling the need to explain herself further. "I had an escort, but _Auvi_ claimed hunger pangs and hasn't returned yet."

She began to walk back toward her meeting place, her brow furrowed as a sudden thought plagued her. "And why are you calling me 'Granger' all of a sudden? I noticed it yesterday, too- it's alright to use my first name, you know."

"I enjoy variety," George joked.

"Yes, I noticed," Hermione remarked, an edge to her voice that made George wonder if perhaps she was talking about something else entirely. And just what had he said to make her lips scowl in such disapproval?

"If you like, I can wait with you until- er, Auvi was it- arrives," he offered in way of peace treaty to whatever subtle undertone he had unintentionally invoked.

"Thank you, but I'm quite alright," Hermione turned him down firmly. Her expression lightened minutely though as she added, "And thank you again- for earlier. I'll try to return the favor some time."

"O Fortuna! The gratitude of a pretty girl is more than thanks enough to any dashing hero!"

George quickly regretted his words as once again Hermione's features darkened.

"Quite so, I'm sure," she said and deliberately turned her back on him.

His mood tossed firmly into the gutter by her obvious disdain, George wasted no time in shoving his hands in his pockets and making for the nearest alley to apparate from. So far, his every dealing with Hermione Granger left him only more firmly entrenched in the conviction that it would be best to avoid future such one on one sessions.

Seconds after his departure, Hermione's shoulders sagged with the loss of adrenaline given energy her encounter gave her. With a rush of breath, she sighed and tugged at her braid fitfully. George had explained it plainly enough- but Merlin, what had just happened? She nearly died- or at the very least fell way to a future spent being numb from the neck down.

Her knees suddenly weak, she fumbled for a brace against the nearest street light. She groaned as she reviewed her painful conversation with George Weasley. Why was it that she never failed to find herself feeling priggish and inhibited whenever in his company? And the way she treated him after having saved her!

"There you are! Thought you wandered off somewhere," Auvi made his sudden entrance, a pleased smirk across his plentiful jowls. "Now come along, Miss Granger. I'll have you know I just finished a right proper bit of tuck. Real meal, that was."

He walked briskly, his hand firmly wrapped around Hermione's still sore arm, oblivious to her physical state entirely. As he continued his praises of the one bit eatery he had found, Hermione groaned yet again.

Whether it was from his grating voice or the new ache that sprung from the use of her knees, she wasn't sure. Either way, she longed to be back at 12 Grimmauld Place, a hot bath under her belt and her bed ready for use.

**III**

**SLEEP WAS A** slippery thing this summer. Some nights, Hermione fell into such a deep slumber it was near unconsciousness, and then other nights, in direct opposition, her mind refused any rest. She knew every line and crease that paved the ceiling above her bed, as did she know the every groove that criss crossed the tiled floor.

It peeved her to no end how uncooperative her mind could be at times. After all, her body was still sore from its contact with the pavement at Trafalgar square the day earlier. The bruises still ached, although the pain had dulled considerably. It was just that she was annoyed.

And tired. There was that as well.

With a frustrated groan, Hermione shoved off her blankets and stepped down into her slippers. She grabbed her robe and padded out from the room she shared with Ginny whenever the girl spent the night. As expected, the hallway was dark and silent. The only light came from beneath Sturgis Podmore's room near the stair, and as she passed by it, she could hear the dull hum and click of a typewriter's keys being punched.

Apparently she wasn't the only one having trouble with sleeping.

The kitchen was as equally dark and as equally silent as the hallway had been. And, at first, Hermione thought it as equally empty as well. She had thought it so until her careless glance over the large table caught the shadowed hulk of a seated figure. For the slightest of seconds, Hermione was reminded of an encounter from her childhood.

Her mother had always been an enthusiast of the arts. She felt it complimented her more rationally inclined mind to dose it with abundant portions of music, drawing, and architecture. For the first ten years of Hermione's life, every holiday, whether it be four weeks or three days, was spent drudging through the country side, visiting old manors, scouting out galleries, and attending different conservatories.

Hermione had a healthy appreciation for what her mother tried to instill in her. She even put her hand to learning the piano, although she had none of the natural talent that creates prodigy. As it was though, she had never felt the personal wonder and awe that came with viewing a truly great art until the summer before she first came to Hogwarts.

The figurine was unfinished, its half form emerging from a circular chunk of garnet marble. The torso sprung upward, its arms wrapped tightly over its neck. The face, without feature but for the slight dip of lips and eyes and rise of nose, curved toward the inlaid chest. It stood at barely half a foot, and never had Hermione seen something so raw with loneliness in her life. A deep sorrow had struck her ten year old self on that humid summer day- an unfamiliar sadness much too mature for a child's heart.

Hermione had never found a human expression in her daily encounters to match the emotion that unnamed and unfinished figurine had caused in her that day. She had never felt such palpable tragedy until she stepped into the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place on that early morning in July.

That rush of memory and deep sadness swept across her breast in the few seconds it took her to recognize the seated figure.

"Pro-Remus...you're back early," she said, the melancholy she inexplicably felt jading her tones audibly.

The shaggy wizard shifted, and the shadows recoated his face in a new cubist cross of light and dark. "You're up rather early, Hermione. Or late, I suppose."

She hovered near the doorway before shaking her head and heading toward the ice box to retrieve some of the left over pudding from the night before.

"Pudding?" she offered after retrieving the dish.

She heard the soft rumble of his laughter and the shift of his chair from behind her.

"Thank you, yes. I've run low on my chocolate."

And with that, Hermione understood more of the feeling that still wrapped around her. Chocolate- the comfort food of the wizarding world, in more ways than one. She quickly found two plates, the proper utensils, and brought it all to the table. In unspoken agreement, they both left the lights unlit.

After taking a few bites, the quiet was ended. "It's very good, Hermione. Molly's?"

She flushed in the darkness. "Actually, I made it."

"Really? It seems I've missed out then," he said and then went on. "How have you been?"

"A little busy, but fine." She shifted restlessly, toying with her fork full. "Remus- where's Harry?"

The sound of a dropped fork reverberated before words overtook it. "He's at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts? But why? Is something wrong- did something happen to those horrid relations of his, the Dursleys?" She could easily imagine a hundred different scenarios that might bring Harry to Hogwarts, but each was worse than the next and none reassured her.

"He had need of the library, and Dumbledore offered its uses to him."

It was on the tip of her tongue to give in to curiosity and ask 'why?' but Hermione shrugged it off, and instead refocused on her pudding. She picked at it with her fork, suddenly wishing instead to have one of her mother's apple tarts.

"Was Professor Snape present at dinner?" Remus asked, the non sequitur of it surprising Hermione.

"Yes, although he left for his rooms immediately after. I wasn't sure if he meant at Hogwarts or here."

"Where does he normally sleep- when here, that is?"

Hermione put down her fork, tired of the chocolate and longing once again for the tang of her mother's pastries. "On the third floor, in the room adjoined to the library, I believe."

She could make out the dip of his head as he nodded. "Thanks." He gestured with his fork toward her plate. "I'll finish that if you're done."

"Please." She pushed the plate over to him, and rested her cheek on her palm as she watched the older wizard eat. Remus was enjoying her dessert- it was obvious even in the shadowed dark. It gave her a warmth to see his approval much like when having received perfect marks on a paper. It was a sense of deserved accomplishment.

"You'll make a wizard a fine wife someday, with talents like these," Remus teased gently, and for some reason she couldn't place, Hermione found herself annoyed by the comment.

Flippantly, she tossed back her braid and answered in like, "Or muggle, you know. There's no saying that I'll find my match in the wizarding world. Or even get married at all for that matter."

"One might hope the latter to be true, Miss Granger, if only to prevent the creation of future children of your sort annoying me in class."

For all that it surprised her to hear her potions professor's voice interrupt the dialogue, Hermione masked it marvelously well in her opinion.

"Severus: just the man I was meaning to find," Remus greeted easily enough.

"Can't say I reciprocate the feeling, Lupin," Snape said, his voice nearer now that he had fully entered the kitchen.

Hermione immediately stood, taking both of the now emptied plates with her. As she neared the ice box, a moment of hospitality hit her. "Professor, we were having some of the left over pudding. Would you like a plate?"

She braced herself for an acerbic refusal, but surprisingly, it didn't come.

"Do mind to use a clean plate, Miss Granger. And a glass of water with it."

While it wasn't exactly polite, Hermione was pleased nevertheless. Apparently, her snappish professor had a weakness for sweets. She could hardly think of any other reason for his condescension.

"I see you've had a busy evening then, Severus," Remus remarked enigmatically.

Hermione lifted her head from the dish holding the pudding to watch Snape's reaction. She could make out the careless lift of his shoulders and the tightening of his jaw, neither of which gave hint to the meaning.

"No different from nights past, I assure you." Snape seized the plate from Hermione's grasp impatiently and uttered no pleasantry in thanks. Hesitantly, Hermione reseated herself, albeit nearer to Lupin than to Snape.

"Hermione, I'd nearly forgotten. You'll have received your O.W.L.s by now- I suppose you've done as well as we've all expected," Remus smiled much in his mild way, his tone belying some hidden amusement that Hermione couldn't begin to fathom.

"No, sir," she lapsed into a momentary formality that she attributed to Snape's discomfiting presence, even if it was put off by his eating of her dessert. "I believe they'll arrive by the end of this week. Perhaps in time for Harry's birthday."

"Well, I'm certain you'll come out excellently. You still are the cleverest witch of your age that I've ever met," Remus said, his words an echo of those said two summers before.

Hermione flushed, her cheeks warm from the praise. "I hope so; I've gone over the questions since the exams enough times though to be unsure. I keep on remembering places and instances where I could have been more precise or less vague. To be honest-"

"Oh do be quiet. False humility has never been an admirable trait. We're all aware that you have the whole library memorized. All you needed to have done was regurgitate what you've read, and you'll have received perfect scores," Snape said crossly, his words punctuated by a stab in the air with his fork. "You'll not fare as well come the N.E.W.T.s; they rely on the ability to theorize, not spout out facts."

Hermione opened her mouth, not sure whether to be outraged or pleased. There was a backhanded compliment hidden in with all the criticism, she was sure. As it was, she simply closed her lips and replied with her silence.

There was a brief clatter when Snape dropped his fork onto his emptied plate noisily. Without prompting, Hermione rose to place his plate along with the two others and immediately got to washing them. It was with a slight start and near dropping of a plate that all the sink's contents were suddenly rid of their crumbs.

Thoroughly surprised, she glanced first to Remus who shrugged his shoulders in denial and then to Snape who merely glowered from his perch at the table's edge.

"It's best that you learn the profits of proper self care, Miss Granger, and go to bed. We have things to discuss that don't involve meddlesome children. You may leave," Snape ordered curtly, and despite her original inclination to stubbornly refuse, Hermione nevertheless nodded in agreement.

She wiped her hands dry and said good night to both men.

"Good night Remus; good night, Professor Snape."

"Good night Hermione. Do try to get some sleep," Remus replied kindly.

Snape merely jerked his chin in direction of the door. Hermione took her cue and left.

Once on the stair, she was tempted to stay and eavesdrop, but with the first bits of conversation, her conscience struck.

"...interesting article, Severus. I was curious if perhaps it might fall in with your research."

"Woods-vein- there is some potential. I've tried it before, however it reacted badly with the unicorn blood. It would lose its strength, but perhaps if diluted-"

"Or powdered. The article was rather specific on its ability to retain potency even when powdered..."

Hermione took the stairs two at time and moved beyond hearing distance. She supposed they were discussing variations on the Wolfsbane potion. She wondered, though, at Snape's practically civil tone. Even when addressing her, he had been singularly mild.

Perhaps he was merely tired; it was more morning than night now, after all.

She crashed onto her bed, releasing her braided hair as she fell. Sleep that had so evaded her earlier, landed in one massive wave. With her mind dashing between Harry's soon arrival and how woods-vein might react if tempered with lilypods, Hermione's eyes quickly closed and her dreams took the shape of her thoughts: a bespeckled boy with a flower bud in his mouth and a cauldron for clothes.

**IV**

**SHE FOUND HER **brother sulking in the den, his condition both pitiable and humorous in one go. The charm or potion or whatever concoction it was that the twins had decided to test on Ron was finally beginning to wear off, but such good tidings did little to relieve the scowl on his freckled face.

Still though, Ginny knew it was best to play sympathetic sister than teasing sibling.

"It's starting to wear off," she remarked casually as she entered the room.

Ron answered by crossing his arms defensively, as if hoping to hide the clinging rubbery material of his once prized Chudley Cannons shirt. "Ten hours too late to have saved me embarrassment."

"Oh Ron, it wasn't that bad. Hermione and Tonks were the only ones who saw-"

"Exactly! Tonks saw me! It was bad enough having Hermione use me as some sort of puzzle to solve, but then Tonks! She'll never forget it..." Ron said miserably.

"Why should you worry about what Tonks thinks? You'll hardly see her once classes start," Ginny pointed out, crossing to seat across from her brother. "Besides, I came here to discuss something other than your clothing woes."

With an air of grim acceptance, Ron gave one last tug on his transfigured clothing before letting his hands fall to his side. "What is it?"

"So glad to have your full attention," Ginny said wryly. "I was just wondering if you knew where George takes off to every night."

"Why don't you ask Fred?"

"I have, but he told me to ask George himself. But as I can't find him, I can hardly go do that, can I?" she replied snippishly.

"You know, _Ginevra_, this attitude of yours- it's hardly attractive." Ron smirked smugly as his sister's face turned an unsightly shade of red in her annoyance.

"It's a defense mechanism, _Ronald_. Since I can't hex you into oblivion during the summer because of the Ministry's idiotic laws, all I have are my words," she explained haughtily, a bit of the angry flush fading into her normal pallor.

"I've been wondering the same thing." Ron quickly returned to the original topic: their brother's mysterious ventures. "George's been acting strangely; Fred was complaining last week that he's never there to help with the shop. And Mum's been off about him nearly every morning- you always miss it waking up so late," the last bit came out accusingly, as if Ginny _purposely _slept to such late hours, which, of course, she did.

"Do you think he's met a girl?" Ginny wondered after a few moments of staring ponderously into the fire. She flicked a piece of thread into the flames, her smile widening as it flared before devouring the small bit of fabric.

Ron, too, turned his head to watch the fire as it dove in between the pieces of never burning wood. "Fred's always been the one for girls, not George. I don't think he even dated once while at Hogwarts."

Ginny switched her gaze to her brother, her eyes wide with surprise. "Really? But I thought he had something with that chaser, Alicia Spinnet."

Ron shrugged, the movement reminding him regretfully of the state of his clothing. Damn Fred- and damn Snape for having taught him how to make potions. As a matter of fact, just damn Snape in general for being a greasy git and general all out bastard of a wizard-

"I always wonder what it is you're going on about in your thoughts when you look like that."

Ginny's mild tones returned Ron directly to the homily decorated confines of the Burrow's den and its shared occupant.

"Snape- just damning him for being alive is all," he explained and his sister nodded as if, indeed, that explanation held any explaining at all.

She might have replied, if not for the sudden change of the fire's flames from brilliant scarlet to deep green. Ginny backed her chair away just in time for the brother in question to come stumbling out, soot falling from his hair in a fine dust.

George hardly had time to blink at them in surprise before Ginny latched onto his arm and dragged him into a neighboring chair. Ron acted in kind and quickly threw one of their mother's colorful knitted wraps over his lap. All in an attempt at domesticity, George mused.

"There. Now that you're all comfortable, perhaps you can shed some light into the situation." Ginny quickly took charge, her brown eyes glittering with the whirling of her mind.

Ron decided to play it by ear and take up the place of good natured side kick to his sister's show. "Right."

George saw his cue and fell into his expected role with more than a small bit of relief. He smiled easily enough and brought the blanket more tightly around him. "However I can be of service, dear sister and dear brother, I shall endeavor to do so."

"Firstly, what is it you're off doing every night so secretly? Is it for the Order?" Ginny shot out, her words emphasized as she jabbed her fingers in the air.

"Don't be daft- the Order wouldn't use him!" Ron cut in, but after a glance at his brother's unpresuming features, his eyes grew doubtful. "Would they? Are you on a mission for the Order?"

George steadied his grin, mindful to project only the air of typical mischevious plotting. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Ginny stopped her pacing, and turned to face him, her eyes shrewd. "No, Ron, that's not right...they'd have used both Fred and George, if they were thinking of using one. Besides, look at their brand of heroics: attacking Umbridge with fire crackers and gag swamps! Hardly the kind of stealth needed for Order work."

George's jaw tightened, his anger piqued unexpectedly by his sister's easy dismissal. Purposely though, he widened his grin and eased into a sloppy sprawl, allowing his knees to unlock and dangle carelessly. "Any other theories then, inspectors?"

"It's not a girl, is it George?" Ron's question was toned with disbelief in each syllable; George was finding himself depressed by his siblings' lack of faith in his abilities, both in wizardry and male finesse.

"You'll not get a pip from me, _Ronniekins_," he said with a flick of his hands before diving in for the kill. "Besides, if anyone's in the druthers about a female, it's not likely me. Oh no, I believe that dubious honor goes to you, my most esteemed younger brother. If you're not careful, Granger might discover she prefers books to your company- much like the rest of us have."

Ron's face went from embarrassed crimson, to angry purple, and finally to astonished white. He opened and closed his mouth twice as if to retort before finally standing from his chair and rushing from the room. Once past the door, he finally replied, "At least I have prospects! Better than whatever adle you've sponged up, likely paid for at that!"

George found himself torn between admiration and anger for his younger brother's semi decent retort. His thoughts were mirrored in his only sister's wry smile. But once she caught his gaze, her smile quickly became the angry frown George was all too familiar with- having been on the receiving end of its wrath from his mother.

"I can't believe you said that! You know how insecure he is about Hermione; it's agonizing just to get him to talk to her lately. Now he's going to avoid her for the rest of the summer- and since she's not going to even notice it- he'll be in a sulk when school starts, just when Harry'll probably need his support! Brilliant job, George, way to show your maturity."

George almost had the good grace to voice his apology- almost. His mind was more wrapped around a comment his sister interjected midway through her scolding.

"Does Granger not like him then? I thought they had that 'opposites attract' going for them."

Ginny crossed her arms and sat down in Ron's vacated chair with an audible huff. "Hardly. Ron's up in the clouds about Hermione; has been ever since she showed up in that dress for the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum attached to her side. You know how he possessive he is. She, on the other hand, barely notices he's alive except when it involves one of Harry's schemes or some other such." Her eyes widened in sudden awareness. "Nice try, you! Think you could distract me so easily- I think not. So, spill it George Weasley. Who is it that has you off for all these rendezvous's?"

George shifted nervously and then immediately stilled. His sister's lips were curving in a smug smatter of typical female '_just as I thought!' _"You get five questions, Gin-gin, all of which must be yes or no, and none can involve names. After that, the subject'll be dropped."

"For tonight, that is," Ginny was quick to add.

He shrugged. "For tonight."

"Alright, so..." she drew her legs up and rested her chin atop her knees, her loose hair falling over her eyes. She cocked her head as she peered at her inscrutable brother, his typical grin still screwed over his lips. "Does this person have anything to do with the Order?"

"Yes."

"Are these meetings with this person business?"

George thought that one over carefully. It certainly wasn't like playing a bit of quidditch or even experimenting with a new potion, but it wasn't all work. He _wanted_ to do it.

"Yes and no."

"So pleasure and business- I've got it! You have a partner for this don't you?" she exclaimed.

"Third question- and no. I haven't a partner."

"Oh," Ginny said, looking disappointed. "Is she a resource then?"

He made a crooked smile. "Gin_-ny_, if you ask tricky questions, how do you know which part of it I'm answering? One left- and it's no."

She frowned, annoyed that he had found her out. So was it 'no' to the 'she' part or 'no' to the 'resource' part? Bother Ron for taking off in a huff; so typical of males, really, to get their knickers in a twist when you needed them.

"Does Fred know?"

"No." George stood up, knocking the wrap to the wood paneled floor, and offered a hand to his sister. She took it with a sigh, before crossing her arms and allowing herself to pout. With a laugh, George threw an arm over her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "If it all works out, Ginny, I promise, you'll be the first to know."

"You do know you can trust me, right? It's not like I'll run off to tell the others," she replied petulantly.

"I know. Just think of this as a belated attempt on my part to break away from my dual identity for a bit."

For an answer, Ginny returned the hug and skipped on ahead. "'Night George! Oh, and do try not to tease Ron too much about Hermione. Try to think of when you had your first crush."

George nodded before returning to the warm fire of the den. He stood, neither too tall nor too thin, his shadow juxtaposed as a stark relief in the flickering shadows. He sighed ruefully as he went over his sister's words. Ron was luckier than he in some respects.

At least Ron recognized when he liked a girl- George had felt attraction enough times, but genuine, romantic affection? No; he left that up to Fred's sort of exploits. George was far better at making girls laugh than at making love to them, not that he would try anyway. Besides, he had yet to meet a girl who could handle both his propensity for three year old humor and occasional drift into complete seriousness. Fred accused him of being manic once.

He sprawled out in front of the fire, the poker in hand to push at the logs and shift the flames. His evening had proved fruitless, due in no part to himself. It wasn't fair of him though to have neglected the shop so much of late. Fred was getting suspicious as it was, especially when the normal temptation of trying out new products on customers had failed to yield the usual enthusiasm from his twin.

George was finally able to ward off his twin's concerns after agreeing to take care of closing the shop- and finishing the required monetary paper work. The Department of Magical Patents and Licenses was still giving them trouble over their creations, whether in the ingredients used in certain potions or the wording in particular charms. The thought alone gave birth to a familiar headache and annoyance.

Damned Ministry; one would have hoped having both a father and brother in its employment might have opened a few doors, but alas! 'Twas not to be.

He shifted and rolled over onto his back, his arms folded to cradle his head from the unforgiving floor boards. Perhaps, it would be best to give up his little project, if only for a bit. Fred was frustrated with his secrecy; Mum was in full mother hen mode, squawking about every excuse he coughed up; Ron and Ginny were in cahoots over him; even the ever distant figure of his eldest sibling had taken a few moments to engage in a 'brotherly chat' which involved Bill attempting to give advice and George desperately trying to find a reason to escape.

So perhaps, it was time for a rest. Maybe his intense need to solve this little puzzle was his subconscious's attempt at trying to put the loss of Sirius to bed. Maybe he was as mental as Fred teased him of being.

For one small moment, a brief passing of seconds completely inconsequential to any one else who might have observed, George allowed himself to feel the pang of loneliness that came with being surrounded by so many. As prosaic as it seemed, especially if he gave in to weakness and voiced it aloud, George needed a friend.

Of all the six year old sentiments...nevertheless, as babes were oft in doing, the truth of it was irrefutable.

With a noisy sigh, George pushed himself from the floor, muttered the charm to douse the magical fire, and left the room, mindful for once, how grateful he was to share a room. It was harder to brood when one's brother was snoring like an overweight hippogriff not four feet away.

_it's in between the minutes_

**TWO**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

26SEPT04

1918


	3. THREE

_**Disclaimer: **Everything of any possible monetary value belongs most faithfully to J.K. Those rubbish bits in between come from a college student with an over-abundance of time and too few worthwhile classes._

_**A/N:** On an absolutely wonderful note, I'm going to spend a semester in London next spring via my university's international program. I'm madly happy. On a second note, I'm presently in search of a well rounded beta reader. If you're interested,post up at my livejournal, the link is listed in my author's page.Details can be sorted out later._

_**Many thanks go out to: **Falafly, avarwen, feel, Gerontius T., and kirjava2._

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**THREE**

_forgotten tastes like plums_

**I**

**IT TOOK ALL **of six seconds before the entire household managed to congregate into the foyer, the cacophony of their entrance more than deafening the nervous energy that filled Harry's mind. One second he was blinking owlishly through his specs, five seconds later, his hand was seized in a firm shake by Arthur Weasley, his other elbow grasped, his knees pushed downward, and his bottom trapped soundly into one of the room's many too small chairs.

It was another six seconds before Harry finally caught the gaze of the one quiet person in the room. As he met the familiar brown eyes of his trial tested friend, he felt a comforting calm settle over his heart. He greeted Hermione with a care worn smile and saw the quirk of her lips in return.

"Harry Potter! Now, this is a surprise. We weren't expecting you until Friday," Mr Weasley exclaimed.

"Where've you been, mate?" Ron asked with his trademark bluntness.

"Hogwarts," Harry replied, slowly relaxing back into the chair.

"Hogwarts? Oh great for you! We've been cleaning like dogs here while you've been feasting at Hogwarts!"

"Shush, Ron," Ginny scolded, before turning her appraising eyes to Harry's face. "You look almost as skinny as Hermione, Harry. I take it your relatives were being as horrible as ever."

"My poor dear! Well, we'll have you plumped up in no time. A few good meals under your belt and you'll have some color back to your cheeks yet." Mrs. Weasley clucked in her usual worried tones.

"Is Remus here?" Harry asked timidly after a few more comments on his poor physicality were traded by the Weasley females.

"He's been in the library with Professor Snape all morning, Harry." Hermione's clear tones carried easily over the usual Weasley din, and Harry smiled gratefully.

"Hello Hermione," he said belatedly.

"Hello Harry," she grinned impishly before running an impatient hand over her loosened hair. "We've missed you."

"More likely she's missed your set of hands. I tell you, Harry, you'll be forced into cleaning some odd corner or shelf within the hour. These females- they're cleaning mad!" Ron's predictable response relaxed the little that was left of that nervous knot in Harry's stomach entirely.

With a lightness he hadn't felt in days, Harry sprung up from the chair and gave Molly Weasley a peck on the cheek before rounding up beside his friends.

"Mind showing me where, Hermione?I promised Professor Dumbledore that I would speak to Remus right away," Harry explained.

She shot a glance at Ginny who returned the look coolly. With a half hidden sigh, Hermione nodded and led Harry out the door. Harry watched the exchange curiously, wondering what had been going on during these first few weeks of summer.

He even opened his mouth to ask but then the hall's presence hit him, the blow nearly physical in all that it was a memory. The portrait was gone. That hateful portrait that Sirius always fought with, that had contained the imprint of the former Mrs. Black. Haltingly, he asked,

"W-what happened with the portrait?"

Hermione regarded the square of lightened wallpaper with obvious disdain. "Remus removed it the night I came."

Harry too stared at the discolored square, his lips tightened with an anger he couldn't explain. "Why did he wait until this summer to do it? Sirius hated it!"

She shrugged, the movement of her shoulders pointedly careless. "We all have our breaking points, Harry. I came into the hall to get to the kitchen, she began her usual howling, and Remus came at her with his wand. He used a hex I read of once, although I'd never have thought of it to remove _paint_."

"I wish I had been there," Harry said, his voice colored with sincere disappointment.

"Well I wish I hadn't. Remus looked downright awful, and the relief on his face afterwards was-" Hermione broke off and shook her head. "Doesn't matter now. Come on, Harry. It's on the third floor."

Harry nodded and followed, his eyes still straying to the spot where the portrait once hung. With each step on the stair, tendrils of intangible memory curled over his shoulders. Half forgotten words and laughter- the jokes not remembered, the intonation lost; the open flash of white teeth against a wide mouth; the dark curtain of near black hair hiding amused eyes; each step on the stair brought memory into vision, and with it, Harry flinched.

Sirius lived here. Once. And now- no longer.

"I thought to warn you," Hermione began quietly as her hand traced up the banister. "Molly's been re-decorating of sorts. I believe she thinks it'll make things easier for you." She paused and turned around, her brown eyes concerned. "I expect you'll get angry, but know that she does mean well."

"What did she change?" Harry asked, breaking eye contact. He heard her sigh and thought that there was something changed in his friend. Something...different about her now.

"Sirius's rooms, among others."

Hermione was right: anger immediately coiled in a tight ball in his stomach, full and harsh and violent. It came to his lips a hundred different things to yell or rage against. But Hermione's practical voice stopped the flow before it burst.

"I think Sirius would have liked them- they are much _cleaner_, and less..." she wrinkled her nose, "aristocratic."

"May I-"

"No one's using them."

"Good."

Hermione resumed her climbing. Harry watched her fingers as they played an invisible melody against the banister, little lifts and jabs, staccatos of an unheard song. Something in the way she moved them made him think of a pianist, and he wondered if she played. The thought, much like many he'd had of late, seemed unusual only in that it went that he should already know.

He wondered why it was that Hogwarts created such an insular environment in both thoughts and conversation. The muggle half of his life- better described as a very small and often unwanted eighth perhaps- was forgotten once among others who shared magic. Concerns and questions about life beyond the magical world seemed almost...inconsequential. And so it went that they were then left unasked.

Harry flicked his eyes back to Hermione's face and caught the worry held in the small lines around her mouth. Tiny creases that stretched her lips into a natural frown- the lines gave her plain features an air of thoughtfulness and maturity. She looked older- older than him at least.

It was with a pang that he suddenly wondered if those lines were because of him.

_Not everything is about you,_ Harry scolded internally and made mind to follow his admonition. _She does have a life outside of you. Try to learn about it sometime._

"It's the second door on the left."

Harry stopped and faced her. "You can come in as well."

She shook her head, predictably understanding what it was he hadn't said. "No, it's fine. I have some reading to catch up on. I'm on the second floor if you need me later. Otherwise you'll find me in the kitchen."

Hermione made to leave, but Harry stopped her with his hand. He shuffled his feet. "Er, your wound- that is, how are you?"

Her smile stretched its way cautiously as her hand fell to her throat, a finger immediately tracing at the enclothed scar. "It's much better. Madame Pomfrey couldn't remove the scar though...but I rather like it. Adds character," she added weakly.

Harry's lips tightened. "It's my fault-"

"Don't be arrogant, Harry," she cut him off smoothly. "I can think for myself, and you certainly didn't force me into going to the Department of Mysteries. I chose to go. If you want to place blame, give it where it's due- on Anton Dolohov." She had an expression of exasperation when finished that Harry knew all too well having received it often enough after saying something stupid or equally thoughtless.

"I'm sorry all the same."

"So am I. You can imagine how I explained _this_"- she gestured toward her chest in general- "to my parents. I had to make up a story about a costume party and the fake scar accidentally adhering to my skin."

She crossed her arms and stood back. "I'm off then. You might try talking to Ron afterward, Harry- he's worried about you, too."

"Better than him being angry at me, I suppose," he joked and was rewarded with a far more free smile. Harry watched as Hermione uncrossed her arms and fell back to her banister playing. Her fingers followed an unseen sheet of music, and again he wondered what it was she was hearing. Had she always done that on staircases?

She went from view, and with a deep breath, Harry made for the second door on the left. Hopefully Remus would understand what he discovered in the library at Hogwarts, because, so far, he hadn't, and while that in and of itself wasn't too disturbing, the emotion that kept teeming in his chest was.

**II**

**DINNER TIME AT** Grimmauld Place was once again a lively affair. Harry's presence brought a vitality to the table dynamics that had previously been absent. That is, to say, the adults recognized the existence of the 'children' and allowed their chatter with benign tolerance. It begrudged Hermione to a certain extent that Harry proctored the sudden acknowledgment, as opposed to herself who was, admittedly, a somewhat better candidate for adult sensibilities.

No one ever accused Hermione of being 'immature' or 'childish.' Not since she was at least seven.

She found herself uncommonly quiet during this particularly noisy dinner hour. Her silence went unnoticed except for two people, who, on their on part, were as equally silent.

"No, it's been _abysmal_, Harry. Mum's obsessed. It's always 'Clean this, Ginny,' or 'Now doesn't that wall look _patchy_? A good scrub'll do.'" Ginny had found a new ear to complain to in the form of Harry. He listened good naturedly enough, mindful to agree with sympathetic murmurs when the occasion demanded it.

"She's worse at home. Ever since Fred and George mentioned moving out, she's set out to fix up the Burrow. Since the attic's untouchable until they leave, she's been at the rest of the house." Ron was equally glum in his descriptions of the manual labor indentured by his mother.

"The twins are moving out?" Harry asked, shooting a surprised glance in direction of Fred who was summarily engaged in showing Tonks his latest accessory: a wristwatch made from dark green dragon skin and inlaid with dragon teeth.

"The shop's done so well already that they've made more than enough to buy an apartment near Diagon Alley," Ginny explained. "I don't know what they're waiting for...I'd have left ages ago."

"But leave the Burrow? Seems so sudden..." Harry said slowly.

"Once I'm done with Hogwarts, I'll have my own place straight away," Ron announced proudly. "I'm not going to stick around like Percy did- the Burrow's home, but it's not the place for a single wizard."

"Yes, I can imagine Mum's reaction when you try to sneak your first girl home," Ginny chimed in mischievously, and Ron flushed after a worried glance at Hermione.

"I still can't get my head around Fred and George being adults now," Harry mused aloud.

"Don't worry about that- those two'll never be adults. Especially now that George has his 'little mystery,'" Ginny said with a roll of her eyes.

George's head turned at the mention of his name. He found four sets of eyes staring at him, two suspiciously, another curiously, and the last with vague disinterest. As Hermione was still puzzling over a passage read earlier, it was no great leap of logic to guess which was her gaze.

"'Little mystery?'" Harry asked. "What's that about?"

"George has some secret project or the other that he sneaks off to every other night," Ginny said with her usual flourish. "Ron and I are of two minds about it: he thinks it has something to do with the Order-"

Ron cut in, "And she thinks George's finally found a girl!"

George studied his plate carefully, looking much as if the pork loins and potatoes were by far the most interesting things he'd ever seen.

"Doesn't Fred know?" Harry questioned with another glance at the oblivious twin. Fred had moved on from his new wristwatch to showing off another line in the WWW's fake wands- a squawking parrot.

"We aren't joined at the hip, you know," George finally said, annoyed by the attention and recent overhaul in 'twin' comments.

"No- just at the brain!" Ginny quipped, and the others, save for Hermione, laughed. Instead, she pushed aside her wandering thoughts and regarded the irritated boy carefully.

"It's not for your shop, then?" she asked directly.

"No, it's not," George answered shortly.

"So why the big secret? Come on, Georgie, tell all!" Ginny begged.

"Find someone else to bother, Ginevra, you're getting tiresome," George muttered and stood back from the table. The adult side of the table paid him no mind. "Tell Mum I went out, would you Harry, if she asks?"

"Alright."

He made quickly for the door, and Hermione just as quickly followed him, saving no time for excuses to the three curious faces left behind.

She caught up to him in the foyer, his hand barely having grabbed the floo powder.

"George! Wait up a bit," she called.

George tensed but put down the small jar holding the powder. He cocked a grin and said, teasingly, "If not for my good sense, I might think you're in love with me, Granger, always following me about."

It threw her for a moment, but Hermione returned his jokes with her usual directness. "The polyjuice you've been making, what's it for?"

George fell neatly into a conveniently placed chair, his knees having buckled in surprise. "How did you know?"

She sat across from him, a satisfied smirk in place. "I've made it before, so I recognized it when at the Burrow last week. I thought it strange but I figured it was a new experiment."

He gave up any pretenses of feigning innocence. "No, the polyjuice is for something else."

"What then?" she pressed.

George considered telling her, for a second, but his self preservation kicked in and he saved himself from what was sure to be a scathing dissection of his theories regarding Sirius's non-death. "You might consider learning to mind your own business, Granger."

"Not when it involves Harry- that's always my business, _Weasley_," she shot back.

"And why are you so certain my 'little secret' as my sister so cleverly calls it concerns Harry?"

"Because you wouldn't be so secretive unless you were unsure how it might effect others, and considering possible options, Harry's the most vulnerable to such things. It's only logical," she concluded.

He didn't answer right away, instead taking the opportunity to remove any other misconceptions he might have had concerning one Hermione Granger. He knew her to be smart; he only ever saw her reading or writing when in the Gryffindor common room. He also knew her to be clever; frequently enough her dry remarks echoed clearly over other conversation in the Great Hall. He hadn't known her, however, to be a such an astute observer.

"I suggest you take up some new hobbies. Perhaps a normal activity, one not quite so _nosey_, say, like- quidditch." He felt a spur of satisfaction at the immediate insult that flared in her eyes.

"I'm not about to be put off by your poor attempts at changing the subject." Hermione uncrossed her arms and crossed to the mantle, seizing the floo powder. "Now listen. If you're using polyjuice, there must be something you're doing that involves a disguise. Obviously it's not for the Order-"

George let out a snort. "That's enough, Granger. I'm beginning to understand why Ron can't stand you half the time." He ignored the way her cheeks paled and went on. "I don't want your help; I don't need your help. And trust me, even if I did need help- of any kind- you would be the last one I'd go to. Your friends are probably too nice to mention it, but your whole bossy, know-it-all attitude is not _that _endearing."

He pushed aside the guilt that immediately flared up when he finally saw her face. He took back the floo powder from her now limp hands and gave her shoulder a small nudge. "Go off, Granger; I'm sure there's a book somewhere desperately waiting your perusal."

She shook her head at his touch, as if to clear her thoughts, and made for the door way. Without turning around, she called back. "Whatever it is that you're doing, George, if it'll help Harry, I'll pretend you didn't mean what you said. That is, if you do decide you need help."

George stared at the empty doorway, and knew, inexplicably, that he had royally messed up. Hadn't he just been thinking that it'd be nice to have a second brain to pick over? Bill and Charlie must have inherited all the common sense available from his parents' collective pool, because of the three youngest males, apparently all were lacking.

He groaned inwardly and snatched up a bit of the floo powder. With a toss in the fire, he called out his destination.

"The Burrow!"

The next batch of polyjuice should be ready by now.

**III**

**HERMIONE HAD HER** sketches spread across one of the library's tables. Each sheet was imbued with different variations of a circle filled with a triangle and then with a square. They were called 'transmutation circles' and were her current obsession. Ever since her first year's experience with the Philosopher's Stone, the idea of alchemy had fascinated her.

Not the idea of changing something into gold, but rather the ability to do transfiguration without a wand. It was wandless magic, and in her opinion, absolutely brilliant.

Muggles saw the circles and called them emblems or even religious insignia, but in magic-speak, they were runes- runes powerful enough to act as channels much like wands. She'd read several books on the subject of the runes used, but none ever spoke of practical application, and this had her immensely curious. Just think of how useful this avenue could be given certain situations!

Like if a wizard was attacked and didn't have his wand; why, he could trace out a circle in the dirt and voila! transfigure the soil into a wall to cage in the attacker.

Like she said, absolutely brilliant. And so, the question pressed, why wasn't at the very least the Order interested in it?

She pushed aside her sketches impatiently. As it was, she couldn't perform any practical experiments until at Hogwarts, and at this point, that was all that remained. Perhaps the reason why wizards didn't use alchemy was because of the very muggle aspects of it. The whole theory rested largely on the performer's understanding of the elements being used. It was really very scientific. One couldn't take the elements that make up table salt and transmute them into steel- they simply weren't equivalent.

Maybe it took a muggle way of thinking to properly perform alchemy. If that was the case, then no wonder the Order wasn't up in high gear on its use. To her knowledge there were only a handful of Order members who had close enough ties with the muggle world to have more than a passing grasp of chemistry and physics. Even at her level, with her fellow students, there was only Dean who understood her when she went off on some chemistry tangent when discussing potions.

Many other students- muggleborn, pureblood, half-muggle- rejected much of the muggle side of things once doused in the magic of Hogwarts. It was somewhat disappointing in Hermione's opinion. After all, there was much more than the just the wizarding world. The muggle world, for all that wizards liked to think it inferior, was far larger and at times, more epic than anything the wizarding world had to offer.

She rubbed her eyes, a headache forming in the back of her sockets. Of late, every time she read, a pain developed between the bridge of her nose that traveled deep into the back of her head. She knew what the symptoms meant, but hated to have to ask.

It wasn't that the idea of spectacles bothered her- she found them rather attractive given the right person. Harry simply wouldn't be Harry without his specs. But it all went to tailor to her given image of bookworm and librarian that the vain part of her psyche rebelled against openly. She managed to beat having to wear braces, but now specs?

Hermione groaned into her hands and allowed herself a moment of wasteful self pity.

"The study is meant for silence, Miss Granger, not for the histrionics of adolescents."

Once again, too often it had seemed of late in her opinion, Hermione's internal musings were interrupted by the acerbic tones of her potions professor.

"I apologize, Professor. I forgot where I was," she mended without lifting her head from its perch between her hands.

She heard the shuffling of papers and realized that the good professor had taken to investigating her work.

"And what are these? Taking up the fine arts, are you? I might suggest keeping it as a hobby, preferably one of the closeted variety."

Hermione pulled back her hands and blinked confusedly before gathering herself and replying. "Transmutation circles, sir. I was reading up on alchemy."

"Rune transfiguration..." Snape mused aloud, a pondering quality tainting his normally schooled features.

"Well, yes," Hermione said, pleased to have found an outlet to discuss her discoveries. "I was curious about various ways of conducting wandless magic, as situations don't always allow for them."

She knew with complete certainty that there was no need for directness for Snape to understand her underlying meaning. There were only a few instances when a wizard would need to perform magic and not have his wand. And there was only one person for whom if such an occasion should arise would mean disaster.

"Have you discussed this with Professor Talmas?" Snape's voice had gained a vagueness to it that Hermione recognized as being much like her own when deeply in thought. He continued to shuffle through her sketches, scrutinizing each like it was a lost great art.

His question, though, nevertheless had her uncomfortable. "I did, sir. He, er, strongly advised that I leave the subject for the more informed to wonder over."

"I take it, then, that you chose to ignore yourprofessor's advisement." Snape lifted his eyes briefly from her papers and shot Hermione a considering glare.

She shifted in her chair, wishing for not the first time in her life that Snape wasn't so damned tall. It was intolerable to converse when one's partner was towering overhead. "I took it as Professor Talmas gave it- advice to be considered and weighed."

"I see that Gryffindor arrogance is still as prolific as ever," he commented curtly and put down her papers. Hermione bristled but did not reply. Snape was, regrettably, correct in his estimation. It was, indeed, rather arrogant of her.

"You might consider reading one of Professor Talmas's great grandfather's works, _Equivalent Trade: To Give and Receive_. It pertains much to what you're researching."

Snape stepped back from her table, pointedly ignoring the shocked expression on her features. He reached into his robes and placed a small flask on the table. He glared openly before explaining.

"Use it sparingly for the headaches. Mr. Hedgefallow is to take you to St. Mungo's tomorrow." Snape's expression darkened further. "Do not wander off, and no arguing the point."

Snape turned to stalk off and Hermione spent the better of ten seconds staring in open bewilderment before her manners caught hold of her. She half rose and called out to him. "Professor!"

He stopped and deigned her with a small nod.

Her hands went nervously to the tip of her braid, a gesture she mentally promised to halt immediately. "Thank you, sir."

"Save your thanks for Lupin. He's the one who noticed." And he left.

Hermione frowned in his wake. She hadn't expected a graceful acknowledgment of her thanks, but honestly, had the man no sense of civility? Remus might have been the one to notice her pained vision, but it certainly wasn't necessary for Snape to have made up a Headache elixir for her.

She brushed away the whole encounter with another rub at her temples and returned to her task. Perhaps she could find Snape's aforementioned tome tomorrow. She doubted Elliot would be unfavorable to the idea of a quick stop at Flourish and Blott's.

**IV**

**THE FIRST FIVE **minutes of non conversation hadn't left Hermione uncomfortable in the least. She hardly expected her escort to be of the mind to spout out small talk, but honestly, to not have said a word in over an hour? It was bordering on ridiculous.

There had been a curt greeting, although, 'greeting' was really too generous a word for it. In between the comment on her lack of promptness and the comment on Pavlov's techniques having certain fine qualities to them, there was mention of Elliot Hedgefallow's excuse.

"That poor example of an Auror fell ill this morning. I am his replacement."

The derision was nearly tangible.

They were currently on the second floor of St. Mungo's, which Hermione likened much to a smorgasbord equivalency in terms of doctoring. She was very curious about a wizard's approach to eye wear, and as she had seen more than a few wizards and witches porting to glasses, she knew that there had yet to be a complete remedy available to failing eye sight.

Snape led her unceremoniously to what appeared to be a sign-in counter. The wizard behind the high counter had a wand tucked behind one ear, another dipping back and forth between two stacks of papers, and a third tapping the surface top in an annoying staccato of off beat measures.

Hermione sneaked a peak at her professor's face; it was appropriately drawn, a familiar sneer in place and a slight twitch in the left eye that belied his great irritation. However, when he opened his mouth to speak, she was greatly surprised. Why...he almost sounded _polite_.

"Miss Granger is here for her nine-thirty appointment with Healer Burbuss. Will the wait be long?"

The clerk stopped the tapping of his third wand and used it to draw up a clock very similar to the one Mrs. Weasley kept at home. There were nearly twenty different hands, all dispersed to six designations: on break, off shift, with patient, wasting time, running tests, and expecting patient. Healer Burbuss's bright yellow hand was firmly planted on 'wasting time.' The clerk lowered his free wand and gestured down the hall way.

"It'll be the fourth door on your left. Healer Burbuss might try to hide, so I suggest doing away with the usual knock; just go in." Snape prodded Hermione's shoulder and she turned, a little unwillingly. She really was most curious now. The clerk spoke up again before they had gone too far. "Oh, Miss Granger?"

She stopped and turned around. "Yes? Is something the matter?"

The clerk pointed directly with his wand and muttered something under his breath. The buttons in Hermione's sweater immediately refastened themselves and her already modest skirt suddenly grew nearly a third longer in length. Snape appeared unperturbed.

"I'd advise you to ignore any suggestions on Healer Burbuss's part when it comes to tests that don't involve your eyes. His hands have minds of their own."

With that portentous send off, the still silent Snape continued down the hallway with Hermione at his heels, her curiosity slowly morphing into anxiety.

Snape paused before opening the door and suddenly fixed her with an intense stare. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed and mildly alarmed. Honestly, what was it now?

"Your hair, Miss Granger," he said in even tones. "Might you do something to make it unattractive?"

"U-unattractive?" Hermione stuttered. Her mind was normally very quick, but it seemed to have hit an impasse at the thought that her hair was being discussed by her potions professor, and that, by way of insinuation, he considered it attractive in its current form. She wasn't sure whether to be complimented or frightened.

"Yes; I realize subtleties have their way of floating over the heads of the Gryffindor House, but I do believe that clerk was fairly direct. Healer Burbuss preys on young women. You are a young woman. It would be best to present yourself in the worst fashion possible." He spoke as if directing a two year old to a spoon laden with chocolate pudding; it was just all _so very obvious._

"Uh, but sir, won't you be with me?" she said, still somewhat caught on that Professor Snape- oh dear Merlin, how unworldly was that- thought her mess of morning ablutions was _attractive_.

Snape sighed, his lips curled in impatience. "It would not be prudent for a wizard in my position to start hexing the healers in St. Mungo's."

Hermione flushed instantly and nodded. "Right. Sorry, sir. I'll- I'll mess it up then." With her words, she pulled out the band that held her french braided hair and quickly tossed it up and over. After a few hard shakes and finger whirls, she was reasonably assured that if her mangled jumble of curls didn't look like something found in a tree branch and normally laden with eggs, then she was without comparison.

Snape stared for a moment more and then turned away, a curtain of his own unredeemable black hair hiding his expression from her downward angle. Hermione nearly giggled as a thought streamed into her mind. What a sight they must surely make- two poster children for a hairdresser's obligatory 'before' pictures.

She almost followed that thought to what an 'after' photo might look like when Snape barreled open the door and directed her in firmly. All of her concerns melted into nothing when the most good natured and open face she'd ever seen smiled at her in welcome.

The older- but still attractive- wizard put down his quill and lifted a crafted hand to his light blond mustache in an unconscious gesture that Hermione found surprisingly alluring. When had she developed a likeness for men with facial hair? She knew less than five and they were all over fifty, her father included.

"Miss Granger! Good morning to you! I trust you had no problems with Mr. Teacomb, he tends to worry most patients with his gossip." Hermione wilted helplessly under Healer Burbuss's warm voice and easy affability.

He turned to welcome Snape. "And you must be Mr. Granger- how good of you to accompany your daughter. I must say, too many parents these days don't seem to care like they ought to."

Hermione watched horrified as first Snape was accused of being her father and second as said man seemed to freeze into ice. The cold nearly crept into the air and she felt the tiny trickle of goose bumps rise on her arms.

"You are mistaken; I am Miss Granger's professor," Snape said stiffly, "Severus Snape."

"Really now? So _you're_ Professor Snape; my younger brother- Elric Burbuss- adored you, you know. Every holiday, he'd return home and rave to Mum about some potion or the other you showed him how to make." Burbuss didn't seem to realize the effect his words had on Snape. Without a second glance, he turned his attentions back to Hermione who watched with her mouth agap and her throat tickling with repressed laughter.

"Miss Granger, _Hermione_, so you've been having some trouble with your eyes?"

She nodded, a little distracted, and then it was all business- at least, sort of.

Snape managed to find a chair during some point in the first ten minutes and each time Hermione glanced over at him while Burbuss ran his wand over her eyes and mumbled some pleasantry or the other, her dour professor seemed to be scowling in a most hateful way. She quickly found, to her relief, that the scowl was directed entirely at the Healer and not at herself. And as she was with most mysteries, she was very curious to what Burbuss said that drew such intense dislike.

She imagined it had to do with the Healer's brother- perhaps Snape thought Burbuss was making fun of him?

Hermione felt the smooth glide of cool fingers beneath her chin and returned her attention to Burbuss's directions. He smiled warmly and let his fingers rest a bit longer than necessary for redirecting her gaze to the left.

"So, Hermione," he asked as he directed his quill to mark something down at his desk. "What is it you do?"

She brushed back a piece of errant hair from her mouth. "I'm a student."

"Oh really? Which university?" Burbuss jotted down another note and directed her to face to the right.

Hermione flushed as once again his cool fingers lingered far too long on her jaw. "Not at an university- I'm entering my sixth year at Hogwarts."

"You don't say!" he exclaimed. "I thought you much older. You seem so very mature."

"I suppose," she said hesitantly, beginning for the first time to feel a bit uncomfortable.

Burbuss clapped his hands and rubbed them eagerly. "Now then Hermione, it seems you've developed a bit of an astigmatism. However, your vision shouldn't be much of an issue unless reading or writing, so you're getting off fairly well. I'm going to write down the conditionals and if you take them to my good friend, Madam Occulus, in Diagon Alley, she'll fix you up with a nice pair of frames and lenses."

She glanced at Snape who had given up scowling for his typical glare of disdain. He gave his agreement by way of a slight nod. "Thank you then, sir."

"Please, Hermione, it's Hector," the Healer insisted, his hand coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. His other hand, hidden from view behind her back found a resting place of a slightly more soft nature. Hermione managed to bite down her squeal of surprise as he squeezed, ever so lightly. "I hope to be seeing you again."

Hermione, red with embarrassment, edged away quickly. "Er, thank you again, H-hector, but we really must be going though. Professor Snape?"

To her eternal gratitude, Snape was already at the door, having opened it and standing ready for her departure. She scurried past him and was surprised when he closed it without exiting. She stared at the plain door face before resting her ear to it in curiosity. From behind it, she heard the muffled sounds of speech, a slight crack, and then a subdued squeak. She jumped back from the door just as Snape re-opened it, an eye brow raised as if daring her to ask.

While Hermione was certainly a credit to her House's mandated staple of bravery, she thought it best to leave such answers to her imagination. She did however summon up the courage to say a few short words as they left St. Mungo's.

"I take it, sir, that Healer Burbuss won't be quite so _friendly _in the future."

He didn't crack even the slightest of smiles as he placed a hand to her shoulder to apparate, but Hermione heard the evident satisfaction in his voice as he replied.

"No, Miss Granger, that he won't."

**V**

**IT WAS TOO **early to be awake during one's holiday, but Harry decided to follow in his studious friend's example for once and put business before pleasure, although, to be honest, his duty was more a very fine blend of the two. His failed attempt two days prior to share his information with Remus had managed to nuzzle its way to his mental catalogue of all things 'ultimately pressing and of high priority.'

And at near seven am, his inner voice of maturity and wisdom often sounding much like Hermione, was all but shrill in demanding his immediate completion of such duties.

Harry found Remus in the kitchen, talking quietly with Kingsley Shaklebolt. Both men greeted him warmly, and Shaklebolt, after watching Harry shuffle his feet for a few moments, offered his farewells and promised to return for dinner. Remus gestured to the open seat next to him, and Harry gratefully fell into it. He let the morning's silence settle around him, appreciative of the house's few times of quiet being given him.

"This would be about what you found in the library, wouldn't it," Lupin started, his gaze squared on the dark mahogany of his coffee.

"Why didn't anyone ever tell me about that book?" Harry asked, hurt jading the puzzlement in his voice.

"Like so many other things lately, I don't know," the older wizard admitted, sounding too wearied for the first light of day. "What did you learn, Harry?"

"The house is mine now; wizarding laws say that after ten years of absence, all property and assets go to next of kin. But Remus," he broke off and stared at the far wall, to the Noah's Ark-esque painting that moved and teamed with grazing animals. "Shouldn't there be a portrait of my parents somewhere as well?"

To think that he might be able to converse with his parents- even if it was merely with the imprint left behind of their memory, it still would be more than anything he currently had.

"It was to be a Christmas present from Sirius and myself that year," Lupin sighed and tipped back his head, his face free for a rare moment of the too gray hair that often hid his smile and eyes. "Sirius found an artist and I was slotted the official packaging."

"They told me- my grandparents," the word felt so foreign to his mouth, Harry having only said it in reference to others' relatives and never to his own. "They told me that they're 'in between places' and that it would be best to wait patiently as 'these things more often than not work themselves out.'"

"In between places...that's a curious choice in phrasing," Lupin remarked after another sip from his mug. Harry's lips deepened in their frown- Sirius's hands had once held that same chipped bit of curved enamel. Last Christmas- only, Sirius didn't like coffee, he only drank tea like Hermione. What kind was it that he liked...a strange bitter flavor, if only he could remember the name-

"Harry?"

He pushed back a flop of his unruly hair and flipped Lupin a forced smile. "Just remembering- remembering how much there is to be remembered and how so much of it will be forgotten."

"Tell me about this book, Harry." Lupin carefully guided the conversation into safer and less tempestuous waters.

Harry shrugged. "It was about different wizarding manors- Godric's Hollow had a whole chapter given it and that's where my grandparents' portrait was. Professor Dumbledore said it was rare to find modern books with hand painted illustrations."

"It- and they- should be able to help you if you decide to rebuild the grounds," Lupin said.

He shrugged again. "I suppose. It was a little strange talking to them. I mean, I know that what's talking to me is nothing more really than a shade. It was stretching even that faint limit to ask on their original bodies' location. I only wish-"

He stopped and shook his head. "I think I should stop wishing about things. It doesn't help much, does it?"

Lupin only raised his eyebrows, taking the question for rhetorical.

"Well, after all," Harry continued to explain, "I can wish and dream all I want, but it gets old, this being disappointed time and again. I'd like to not feel let down all the time."

"It is true that if you never make wishes or plant dreams, then those wants can never be disappointed. But, Harry, they won't ever be realized as well." Lupin pointed his wand toward the counter and summoned a few of the bread rolls from the night before. Breaking one in half, he offered the rest to Harry.

Between bites, he went on. "Living one's life is also playing a part in the world's greatest of gambles. Each new day brings with it infinite possibilities: this could be the day in which you meet your soul mate or a new best friend; this could also be the day in which you make a lifelong enemy. With each choice you make, you place a new hope in that having been the right one."

"It sounds nice the way you put it, but that's not true. Sometimes, there are no options; there's no choice." Harry replaced his roll, untouched. Dumbledore's words from little more than a month ago seemed to echo relentlessly. _'...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...'_ There was no choice there; kill or be killed; murder or be murdered. Simple as 1, 2, 3 and with no safe haven of recourse available.

"There are many things I wish for, most involving changing the past. But for what is possible, there is only one thing I wish for now." Lupin smiled and Harry caught a glimpse of what must have drawn his playful and mischievous father to this wizard when they were nothing more than boys. In that smile- two simple rows of teeth, a red tongue, and parted lips- hung the hint of wonder, of daydreams, of superstition- of all those things that children give up once adults.

It was heartbreakingly sad for Harry to see that smile and think of all those now dead who once must have loved it.

"I only want for those I love to be happy. It's simple enough and small enough, that even as old as I am, I believe possible."

"To be happy..." Harry echoed. Such a normal idea, really. To be happy... "I'd like that, too, Remus."

"You'd like what Harry?"

While he jumped slightly at Hermione's sudden entrance, he was thankful for her interruption. Lupin responded in his usual mild way.

"Good morning, Hermione. We were talking about being happy," he explained as he offered her Harry's rejected roll.

She shook her head and stood at the table's edge, facing them. "I'm not too hungry actually." She wrinkled her nose as she sniffed the air. "Is there tea along with that coffee?"

"There's only Sirius's" -Harry's heart jumped at the name- "favorite. It's a bit bitter."

"That's right...he likes darjeeling, doesn't he?" Hermione asked as she crossed to the cabinets, rooting about for the tin that held the tea bags. She didn't seem to notice that she spoke in present tense, but Harry certainly did.

It made him angry for all that he suddenly felt irrationally hopeful. He squashed down the emotion. Sirius was dead. Dead.

He pushed up his glasses and watched as she set a pot to boil on the stove top, her free hand pushing back absently at her loosed hair. There was something comfortingly domestic in the picture: Hermione frowning at the choice of mugs, red socks on her feet and a striped blue robe hanging from her shoulders, and the unconscious way in which she kept fiddling with her brand new pair of spectacles stuffed in her pocket.

"You should get used to wearing them, Hermione," Harry said and grinned after she shot him a pointed glare.

"The healer said they're only necessary for reading," she said primly.

"Oh, did you get specs then Hermione?" Lupin asked.

Hermione gave him a perplexed glance. "Yes, yesterday; but I thought it was you who-" she broke off suddenly and dropped her mug to the counter with a dull thud, a very confused expression on her face.

"It was I who what?" Lupin asked, a trifle confused himself.

"Well, that is, I thought it was you who noticed, after all- that I was having headaches when I read," she explained.

"No, I'm sorry to say that I didn't," he said ruefully, getting up from the table and whisking his cleaned utensils to their proper homes in the cabinets and drawers. "Just curious, but why did you think I was the observant individual who picked up on your vision troubles?"

Hermione tucked a bit of hair behind her ear as her lips settled into a pensive frown. "I must have misunderstood, that's all."

Lupin nodded and mentioned some chores waiting him in Diagon Alley. As soon as he left, Harry spoke up, one of his cheeks propped up by the palm of his hand.

"They suit you," he said.

Hermione took a tentative sip from her mug and smiled in satisfaction. "Thank you, I guess." She took out the thin wire frames from her pocket and regarded them critically. "I don't like my reflection with them on though. It's as if I'm facing a stranger."

"They're only specs," Harry pointed out, but internally he agreed. Hermione already looked far more serious than she really was, and when one added in a predictably toted book and ink stained fingers, the addition of glasses only served to add years that she couldn't possibly want.

"Ha- I know what you're secretly thinking, Harry Potter," she said teasingly. "You're just happy that I now have a greater incentive to find more charms to help you out with your vision ailments in quidditch."

He laughed, his green eyes sparking with the warm sounds. "You're too smart for your own good."

She laughed as well. "And I never could turn down such a compliment."

_forgotten tastes like plums_

**THREE**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**DIFFERENCE ALWAYS MATTERS**

01NOV04

2050


	4. FOUR

_**Disclaimer: **JKR owns everything, and I shall be long dead and buried before that copyright runs out._

_**A/N: **I now have a beta! Lupinfan227 is wonderful and her advice and corrections help fix a rathering annoying problem for me. Louisiana rocks-P_

_And now for some news: I hope sincerely to continue updating once a week. It's my plan, and I don't currently forsee any trouble with it. So here's to hoping!_

_**Carpet wishes to thank: **HP-Magic, kirjava2 (your reviews never fail to make me laugh, however unintended that may be on your part), Falafly, the mad awesome Lupinfan227, and Grace7 (thank you so much! wow, such glowing words- thank you again.)_

_And now, enough with this jibber jabber- onwards!_

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**FOUR**

_try the north end _

**I**

**HARRY'S SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY** was the first birthday in his life to be as equally joyful as it was sorrowful. With each bout of laughter and present unwrapped came in underfoot the reminder of who was not there to share the joke or revel in the gift. The tumult of these emotions flickered like ocean waves, at times coursing to a dreadful height and at others, crashing with a resounding calm. Hermione watched her best friend, her mouth often twisted in a worried half smile, and hoped that the grief wouldn't taint everything for him.

It was in this regard that she was very thankful for Ron's steady cheerfulness. He brooked no displeasure in openly laughing and teasing, and from what she observed, the childish behavior acted like a balm to Harry's keen emotions.

Ron enjoyed lording about his five month eldership over Harry, and on several occasions, would rub his freckled nose in what he probably imagined was lofty disdain and exclaim some wise lesson gained from that five month seniority. Hermione watched as each time Harry's eyes began to dull and lose their glow, her red haired friendwould say something so ridiculous that it was impossible not to laugh.

Ginny followed up all of her brother's inane comments with an exasperated "Oh Ron!" and a roll of her pretty brown eyes. She seemed to have forgiven Hermione at long last for her great crime of having spoken frankly and was actively trying to coax her housemate into forming a female alliance, arguing heatedly that: "...as there are only two of us and six of them, it's only logical!"

Hermione thought it funny that Ginny should group her two very much grown up oldest brothers in her respective Grimmauld Place's divisional category out of the two; the two of course being 'children' and 'adults.' Perhaps more exactly labeled as 'non-Order members' and 'Order members.' It still rubbed her raw that she was denied access to this elite and much more interesting quadrant of the house's society simply due to a very small matter of age.

As it was though, she now sat with her knees curled to her chest, listening as Ginny and Fred regaled Harry with another story of their 'youthful indiscretions,' this one involving a visit to their neighbors the Lovegoods one Easter anddiscovering Mr. Lovegood attempting to transfigure his home into the shape of a rabbit. Her fingers kept rising, unbidden, to tug on the edges of her loosed hair as her brown eyes repeatedly fell to the very silent and preoccupied form of George Weasley.

While Fred was porting a brilliantly orange dragon hide jacket in honor of the festivities, George was abnormally subdued, his normal jeans and polo traded for black slacks and a loose fitting grey sweater. Even his red hair appeared darkened, the uncombed strands hanging limply over his opaque blue eyes. The only part of him that stood out was the pale white of his skin and his bottom lip, blood red from having been repeatedly bitten down on.

Hermione winced inwardly as said lip was once again ravaged in a moment of thoughtful pique. Her curiosity from earlier was quickly being replaced with concern as she observed the twin's distracted behavior. She had never been particularly close to George, but she had never known him to not be an active participant in a party. Normally, it was he who was roaring about for the need of a good celebration.

She hugged her legs to her chest and rested her head on her knees, thankful that she thought to pack the long skirt along with all her usual school clothes. Her summer wardrobe, while at home, normally consisted of sun dresses and faded cotton shorts and discarded t-shirts found in vintage stores years past, but something in the manner of Grimmauld Place made her hesitant to dress so freely. She couldn't help but feel it...childish to dress with comfort in mind when all the adults around her dressed for protection, for defense.

Hermione returned her eyes to Harry's engaged features, watching as he dipped his head in encouraging nods or frowned in confusion at one of Ginny's phrasings. The frowns were quickly replaced by small grins of understanding as Ron explained one of the many things he and others of the magical community knew since birth. She often wondered how it was that Harry seemed so much more acclimated to the magical way of things, while even now, she often reached first for a physical answer before one gained through her wand.

Although, she would certainly be the first to admit there was a certain special satisfaction to be felt through the contact of skin on skin as opposed to the flick of a wooden rod.

"I can't wait to be sixteen!"

Hermione jerked awake from her musings and listened as Ginny extolled the glories of being 'sixteen.'

"It's the age when a witch finally comes into her own, and she can finally be treated like an adult. I can have summer jobs, open my own Gringott's account, even leave Hogwarts if I like." Hermione struggled to hide her disapproval as Ginny finished off her exaltations with a sigh of longing. She was thankful then when Ron showed a bit of his brotherly concern- and possessiveness.

"You can be sixteen all you like, but you'll still have us to deal with," he pointed out as he stuffed another cream puff into his mouth.

Ginny crossed her arms defiantly. "All of you really take this 'big brother/baby sister' thing too far. It's ridiculous to think I'm going to need your protection _forever_. I did very well, as you must recall, at the DA last year. Right, Harry?"

She turned to Harry for confirmation who quickly shook his head to clear away his vacant expression. He obviously hadn't been paying attention.

"Er, yes?" he offered. When Ginny turned back to her brother triumphantly, Harry met Hermione's eyes and mouthed a soundless 'what?' across the room. With a small smile, she discreetly gestured to first Ron and then to Ginny with a roll of her eyes. He smiled, understanding completely.

Those two had a sibling relationship of the most complicated kind, with Ron harboring a near sister complex and Ginny carting a rebellious streak a league long.

"I suppose we can have the DA made an official club this year," Ginny said with a thoughtful tap of her cheek. "Harry, you'll have to talk to Professor Dumbledore about setting up meetings."

The ease in Harry's features vanished as he stiffened in response to her words. His green eyes darkened, and he responded resolutely. "There'll be no DA this year."

Hermione was only mildly surprised; she imagined Harry would react much in this way. Ginny, however it seemed, was very much shocked.

"What do you mean? Of course we'll have the DA- that cow Umbridge is gone!The _Prophet_'s announced you-know-who's return; why shouldn't we have the DA?" The petite girl placed her hands on her hips, her jaw set and her eyes daring for anyone to counter her logic. "Well?"

"Because I would think the lesson's already been learned fairly well, Ginny," Harry said an edge to his voice.

"But, Harry! The only reason we got out of the Department of Mysteries alive was because of the DA!" Ginny protested.

Hermione managed to cut off Harry before he said something he might regret later. "I think what Harry means, Ginny, is that it might be more prudent to seek advice from the Professors first."

She glanced hesitantly in Harry's direction and was relieved to see his shoulders relax slightly. She wasn't prepared for Ginny's angry response, though. The girl stood up, her fists coiled and her cheeks flushed. She relaxed one of those hands only to jab a finger in Hermione's face, mere centimeters from her nose.

"Don't you dare try to speak for Harry! Acting as if you know what he's thinking, what he's feeling...what good were you last summer? You're always lecturing and nagging; yet what do you know of it? You've never had that _thing's_ voice in your head like **we** have! You know nothing of it, so don't act like such a know-it-all!" Ginny stood, chest heaving and breath panting for nearly a minute in the shocked silence before her words caught up with her. With a look of pure horror, all color drained from her cheeks. A choked sob escaped her lips before she covered her face with her hands and ran from the room.

Ron stared after his sister, more contrition than worry on his face. He turned to Hermione and offered a weak shrug. "She doesn't really mean it, Hermione- words are her best defense. Ginny just gets carried away sometimes." He dropped what was supposed to be a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't take it seriously."

"Hermione?" Harry asked, worried by her pale cheeks.

Hermione shuddered, and Ron removed his hand. She lifted her eyes and found herself pinned under the intense scrutiny of another's gaze. George's light blue eyes seemed to be apologizing, and with a snap of her head, she woke from her daze. Hurriedly, she said, "I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to...to touch upon a sensitive subject." She rose up from the couch and smoothed down the wrinkles in her skirt. "Excuse me for a moment; sorry, Harry- but don't worry, I'll go patch things up with Ginny now. We shouldn't be arguing on your birthday."

Harry nodded, a frown twisting his lips, but he didn't protest. She smiled in what she hoped was a convincing manner and rushed to the door, retracing Ginny's hurried retreat. As she shut it behind her, she heard Fred grumble loudly about 'girls and their moods.'

She paused for a deep breath before stepping carefully past the kitchens where the adults' voices were disguised in the hush of murmurs and dinner conversation. Hermione knew of only two places Ginny would run to while at Number 12 Grimmauld Place and in need of an escape. One of such places involved the use of the fire place in the formally exited room. The second was their shared bedroom.

She crept up to the door, listening for any signs of feminine tears or muffled sobs. She wasn't quite sure what she was going to say to make things 'all better,' but she supposed anything would be an improvement on the current state of things. And it would be best for Harry if Ginny and she came trotting back downstairs, sporting grins and some nonsense about, as Fred had put it, 'girls and their moods.'

She decided against knocking and pushed open the door, peeking her head around the frame cautiously; Ron had shared many a story about Ginny's fondness for testing her aim with projectiles when angry.

"Ginny?" she called out hesitantly before stepping all the way in. She heard the distinct rush of air that signified a girlish sniffle and turned in its direction. Crouched down between a three legged lamp stand and one of the four poster beds was Ginny, cheeks splotched and hands engaged in wrestling a large handkerchief into small bits.

"Oh, Ginny..." Hermione sighed as she slid onto the floor next to the dignified, albeit wounded girl. "You do know I wasn't trying to insinuate anything, right?"

There came another loud sniffle. "I know, Hermione! I'm _horrible_, really I am. Mum's always telling me that I'll break something someday with this mouth of mine, but I just get so _emotional_ and irritable lately..." Ginny released her stranglehold on the handkerchief long enough to wipe at her cheeks and daintily blow her nose. She blinked up at Hermione, her eyes watering dolefully.

Hermione sighed. "I wish I understood better; my mum's always going on about how unsympathetic I am, how I lack the right sort of passion. So...I suppose we even each other out then, don't we?" She offered up a smile and released a mental sigh of relief when Ginny returned it warmly, once again wiping at her cheeks.

"Still though, Ginny," she said, wanting to address something that should have been taken care of long before. "I know we've been clashing a bit this summer, but I'll have you understand this now: Harry's my friend and only my friend. I'm not about to attempt to steal away his attentions from your pretty head, so you really don't need to be so defensive."

Ginny pushed back at a swab of hair with a slight puff of breath. Her smile lost its warmth. "I'm not jealous, if that's what you think." Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes; she was not an idiot. Ginny went on. "Really, I'm _not."_

Apparently she hadn't resisted the urge successfully. "Alright. That's fine. I'm horrible at reading people anyway. But it's Harry's birthday and I feel like a louse having messed things up. So I'm sorry for cutting into your conversation."

Ginny stood up from her crouch, tucking in her shirt and once again wiping at her cheeks. "You don't know everything, Hermione," she said as she made to leave the room. "Sometimes things aren't how they appear."

Hermione could only cradle her suddenly pounding forehead between her hands and hope fervently that she would never suffer from the adolescent rages of female emotion that seemed to plague so many of her gender. She considered remaining as she was for the rest of the evening, head bowed, comfortably seated on the plush rug and cozied up against one of the bed's sideboards; Harry would understand... hopefully.

She sighed, this time a long, drawn, and intensely wearied one. She was tired of dealing with so many people. She liked the Weasleys, truly she did, but the entire family- well, at least when more than two of them were gathered, operated on this high bustling level of energy that she simply couldn't keep up with. From high to low, from joyous to furious- the intense range of emotion was incredibly...incredibly...

Incredibly tiring.

Hermione heard the creak of someone's foot in the hallway and groaned softly before lifting herself up from the floor. Without turning around, she brushed at her skirt and called out, "Listen Ron, I'll be down in a bit. I've got this awful headache-"

"Is it merely that patented Gryffindor arrogance or a more personal failing that prevents you from following directions?"

Hermione whirled around, finding herself only mildly surprised that it should be the ever dark form of her Potions professor facing her and not Ron's gangly self.

"Professor, my headache is not related to straining my eyes," she returned smoothly.

Snape regarded her coldly. "I don't recall having said it was, Miss Granger."

She opened her mouth to respond and promptly closed it, another throbbing spasm thudding through her forehead. Wearily, Hermione closed her eyes and massaged her temple gingerly. "Please then, sir, just tell me straight out what you mean. I'm tired, my head's throbbing, and I still need to make sure all's peaceful again in the Weasley waters."

When the silence persisted, she thought herself granted freedom from a continued interrogation, however the sudden press of a vial into her hand forced her eyes open and up. Standing much as he often tended to in class- close and looming- Snape stared down at her, his face expressionless.

Hermione cupped the vial and recognized the silver liquid as more of the headache elixir given her days earlier. Thoroughly bewildered, she could only stare.

It was in the mildest- and most unfamiliar- of tones that Snape finally chose to speak. "I was referring to my request that you take better care of your self. There is not enough time in the day to deal with physical complaints that could be avoided if only the person acted with some common sense."

So struck was she by the uncanny sound of concern his voice, that she failed to notice his hand rise as if to her shoulder and then fall, having never touched. Snape stepped back briskly, a slight cough erring his composure and smacking Hermione back into real time.

"Thank you, sir," she managed, a bit dazed and not entirely sure why.

He made no sign of having heard but turned to leave. The tail end of his cloak was wafting through the frame when the question that had bothered her for two days now finally found voice through her lips.

"Professor Snape!" She rushed on when he paused. "Why did you say it was Remus who noticed my headaches?"

He stilled, and from her angle of view, the candelabras from the hall cast triangular shadows that cut his face into a diamond of feature and line. She watched as the muscles that lined his jaw tightened and the diamond shifted and re-settled. It was the only movement that gave sign Snape heard her at all before he walked away entirely, leaving her question unanswered.

For the third time in less than fifteen minutes, Hermione sighed.

People were so bloody complicated.

**II**

**HE WATCHED HER** covertly from the corner of his eye, mindful to keep turning the pages of his magazine every minute or so. She had yet to move from that particular stretch of book shelves for nearly ten minutes, which wasn't odd in and of its self, except that there was no book in her hands, nor had she reached for one.

She was obviously deeply in thought, and for what felt like the hundredth time, George wondered what she was thinking.

When his mother declared that it was time for an outing that morning over steaming platters of sausage and eggs, there had been the usual clamor of exclamations and bench shuffling. The only two who didn't react so were Harry and Hermione, the former most likely because he didn't think the outing open to him and the latter because her eyes were intent on the current page in her book.

Both matters were quickly cleared up after his mother set out instructions in her usual brisk manner, ordering Hermione to stick with at least one other of the brood with wand use available, and strongly encouraging Harry to consider changing into a pair of robes as it would draw less attention. The groups were quickly divided: Ron and Harry were to go with Bill and Charlie, he and Fred with Hermione, and Ginny was to not leave his mother's side for all the world.

And that was how he was finally finagled into spending more than a few cursory minutes in Flourish and Blott's. Fred had left after the first fifteen minutes, obviously irritated and muttering under his breath about _'she's nutters; it's not natural all this book obsession.'_ Hermione, as predicted, did not notice his departure, and George was loathe to mention it. He kept to his subtle observance and hoped that Fred would eventually find compassion enough to return and save him from making a fool of himself.

Ah yes... there was _that_. He had decided to apologize, and there was absolutely no way to do it that didn't involve admitting to being a complete and utter prat. He still felt guilty from the hard verbal lashing he gave her nights earlier, and Harry's birthday party only served to cement that guilt into a three stone block of weight on his shoulders. George wasn't usually so harsh- in fact, he rarely took to the sorts of verbal acrobats that his sister and younger brother were so fond of battling with during meal times.

He snuck another glance in Hermione's direction, her attentions still fixed on whatever thought so captivated her. He let out a small rush of breath and squared his shoulders. There was only one way to go about apologizing, he knew, and it was best if approached directly. He was in the wrong, after all, and whatever awkwardness he might feel was only just.

George replaced his magazine and meandered slowly, hoping to feign nonchalance, to her side. He stood and waited for her to notice his presence. As the seconds stretched, he bit back a sigh. He sucked in a bit of air before purposely clearing his throat. The sound came out far too loudly for their close proximity, and she nearly jumped in surprise. With her hand pressed to her chest, Hermione whirled to face him.

"George!" she exclaimed, a bit breathless. "You startled me."

"Er, right. Sorry then," he stammered and mentally beat himself. Apologizing before the apology- what a brilliant start!

Hermione stared pointedly. "Was there something you needed?" she asked, not unkindly, merely curious.

"Not particularly," George began slowly, for the first time considering how he should word his reparation. "Hermione-"

"Oh, it's 'Hermione' now, is it?" she interrupted lightly, finally lifting her hand to finger a text from the shelf. When he didn't answer, she returned her eyes to his gaze. George was surprised by the lack of irritation there. She let out an impatient bit of breath. "George, I'm not going to bite your head off. What is it?"

There really was nothing for it. Directness it was then. "What I said- the other night- I didn't mean it," he said in a rush and continued before she could respond. "I'm sorry. You were concerned about Harry, and I acted defensively."

He watched as she replaced the text, unopened. She continued to stare at the shelf before once again facing him. Again, her expression surprised him. She looked inexplicably saddened.

"Hermione?" he asked uncertainly, a little concerned.

She stepped back from him and looked away. "It's alright George. Thank you for your apology, but really, it wasn't necessary. I was just a little shocked; hearing the truth verbalized tends to do that sometimes."

Her back was facing him now, and for all that George felt better for having apologized, the guilt had changed into something far less nameable. It was uncomfortable, whatever the emotion was, and it pricked at his throat, forcing the awkward words from his lips.

"I mean it. What I said- it's not true. It really isn't. You're Ron's best friend. That you're clever and mature- these are things he likes about you." Her shoulders stiffened and he pressed on, regardless. "Honestly, Hermione, what I said- I was just being cruel."

George stared at her back, hoping to see something that signified that 'everything was all better.' He was soon rewarded when she twisted back around, her eyes noticeably dry and glinting with something suspiciously resembling determination.

"Do you mean it?" she demanded, her cheeks flushed. "Do you really mean it?"

He forcibly stopped himself from retreating and met her gaze full on. "Yes, I mean it."

She smiled and her posture relaxed. "Good," she said, returning to the shelves. "Then I expect you'll finally tell me why you need Polyjuice to visit the Wizarding Archives."

"Come again?" George sputtered, almost in reflex. Inwardly, his mind was torn between shock at having been found out and admiration at how cleverly Hermione had swung things her way.

Hermione dropped her pretenses with the books and took his arm with an air of impatience. "We can't talk in here. Are you hungry? There's a place next door."

He barely registered as she dragged him outside of Flourish and Blott's and into the neighboring eatery, Smorga's Board. She waved off the waitress who eagerly bandied up with one hand and with the other pushed back at a piece of wayward hair. With an expression of satisfaction, she finally returned her attentions to the still stunned George.

"Well? What's in the Archives?" she asked.

George made a mental shake of his head before answering. He had no idea how she found out about his forays into the Archives; he was certain Fred wouldn't have said anything. Still though, the only pertinent question that remained was whether she would think his theory worthy of madness or merit.

"The Book of Records," he said, finally deciding in taking the gamble.

"The Book of Records..." Hermione echoed as her brow wrinkled in concentration. George did not need the aid of Legilimency to know her thoughts. "But why should you need the Book of Records?"

"Do you ever read the Auror Reports in the Daily Prophet?" he asked, the seeming non sequitur of it apparently surprising her. She nodded nevertheless, and he continued. "Have you noticed the wizards listed as still wanted by the Aurory?"

She nodded again, this time slowly. George watched with barely held anticipation as she blinked once and then twice rapidly as comprehension dawned its potentially ugly head in her mind.

"He's still listed?" she asked, and he needed no clarification on who the _he_ was.

"Yes. He's still listed. Has been all summer. I checked at the Ministry as well, just in case the _Prophet _wasn't being updated. He's still wanted there as well." And with an urgency George hadn't even been aware of- desperation as well it seemed- he said again. "He's _still on the list_, Hermione."

Hermione stared at him, the seconds stretching into seemingly painful hours of time as George waited for her to respond. When she finally did, it was in such a flurry of motion that he barely cataloged as she all but collapsed in her chair, her head cradled between her hands.

"Oh bother, I wish I was of age...I think I need something alcoholic," she said in a voice lacking the calm George was used to hearing.

"And why's that?" he asked carefully, wondering if perhaps she wasn't as stable as he thought.

She lifted her head up from her hands, and George was transfixed in his seat by the unabashed joy in her brown eyes. She sniffed audibly and seized the napkin that bound her set of cutlery, using it to wipe at her damp eyes.

"Hermione, I didn't mean to upset you," he began awkwardly and broke off as she traded her napkin for his hand.

"_No_, George. Don't apologize. Oh gods, don't apologize. This is _wonderful._ Absolutely, brilliantly, wonderful!"

George relaxed unconsciously as he slowly realized that not only had Hermione not thought his conjecture insanity, but that she also saw the possibility in what it meant. She continued to stare at him, that light of happiness all but setting her face aglow, and very suddenly he was quite aware of the soft warmth of her hand on his own. Her touch, coupled with the intensity of her joy, brought the blood rushing to his face and nervously he pulled his hand back.

He regretted it almost immediately, for her eyes suddenly shifted focus as her emotion took backseat to whatever ruminations her logic was pushing forward.

"This is wonderful George, but what does it mean then? If-" Hermione cut herself off, as if mindful of possibly eavesdropping ears. "If _Snuffles_ is still alive, then where is he? Better yet, wouldn't Dumbledore know?"

"I don't even know that much. That's why I'm looking through the Book of Records. I have to see if Snuffles's branch has been closed off by the Book," George explained in a lower tone. "But the bloody thing's not being very cooperative. The families are listed chronologically, not alphabetically."

"And I suppose an _Etomologus _charm didn't work either…" she mused aloud.

George went slack, his tongue numb with shock. "Of all the eejit things…"

Hermione stopped with her rambling and cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"I can never again make fun of my brother for his penchant for ignoring the obvious. For three weeks now- three weeks- I've been pouring over that bore of a book and never once thought to try a simple alphabetizer. I am, without a doubt, a complete pillock."

Hermione shook her head, her lips quirked in what George was beginning to recognize as her impatient look. "Doesn't matter now. When we go tonight-"

"Tonight?" he cut in quickly. "I think not. The next batch of polyjuice won't be ready for another four days, and besides, it'll look suspicious if I suddenly show up with someone else."

"You don't need polyjuice if you're invisible, George." Behind the exasperation, he caught the soft amusement, and his memory picked up on the existence of a certain cloak that promised such delights as invisibility.

"Harry's cloak…that's brilliant," he said with appreciation.

Hermione sat back in her seat, a slow smile spreading its way through her lips. "Yes, I thought so myself."

He slumped in his chair as well, his shoulders inexplicably lightened. "Well then, in order to show my appreciation, you have to allow me to treat you to lunch."

She seemed to consider and then that careful smile of hers inched into a grin brimming with mischief. "On one condition."

George opened his hands in agreement. "Go on."

"You promise not to call me 'Granger' anymore."

He grinned in return and winked ever so slowly. "Agreed…Hermione."

**III**

**HARRY WAS FEELING** most uncomfortable by the middle of dinner. Ginny Weasley had always been something of an enigma, especially after her rather metamorphic un-budding the year prior, but her current behavior was nothing short of unfathomable. She'd ask a question with a brilliant smile in place, something or the other about schoolwork or the Cannons, and he'd answer. Almost immediately would go the smile and Ginny would shuffle a bit in her seat, noticeably annoyed.Heturned to Ron for explanation, but his friend looked nearly as baffled as he was. Helooked next to Hermione, sure that as a female, she would have some sort of understanding of what was making Ginny behave so oddly. However, Hermione's mind was obviously elsewhere. She picked at her food and occasionally muttered something under her breath.

Harry recognized the symptoms immediately: Hermione had herself a puzzle to solve.

He felt much better after diagnosing that disease, but that still left Ginny's illness to not only name but then cure. And he was hoping she'd have a quick recovery, because once again she was glowering at him above crossed arms.

Desperate for a change in atmosphere, he called out to one of the elder Weasley brothers. "Charlie, what's this about you coming to teach at Hogwarts this year?"

The attention shifted away from himself and latched almost physically onto Charlie who had been occupying himself with the much happy task of flirting with a slightly inebriated Tonks.

"I'll just be taking on some of the lower level classes for Hagrid and occasionally helping out with the upper forms," the stocky Weasley replied a bit awkwardly.

That woke Hermione up from her musing. "Does Hagrid have some sort of private project, then?"

Again, Charlie appeared uneasy in the question. "Possibly," he glanced to where Kingsley Shaklebolt sat and continued when rewarded with a curt nod, "Hagrid may be called away at some point for business with his, er, _large _associates."

Satisfied, Hermione returned to her musing. Beside him, Ginny seemed to be readying herself for yet another exhaustive interrogation and so Harry once again dove in for a save. "So then, Charlie, do you know when we'll get our O.W.L.s?"

He hoped the desperation in his voice was mistaken for anxiety. It really wouldn't do to be asked.

Tonks spoke up as Charlie shook his head. "A coupla Aurors were talking that over this morning. Seems their kids haven't received Ministry notification yet either."

"The results will be distributed on the first day of classes, Harry. It was decided that post was not the most reliable service after several letters were mixed up last year and one very distraught Ravenclaw jumped from his bedroom window. Thankfully his room was on the first floor." Remus Lupin leaned wearily into the back of his chair, a half smile helping to ease the tiredness from his features. "I wouldn't worry too much though, Harry. I'm sure you did fine."

"I know I failed Astronomy," Ron managed to say despite the crowding of potatoes in his mouth. "I doubt anyone passed it."

"I still can't believe the tester didn't re-schedule the exam. How could any of you be expected to pay attention with Professor McGonagall being attacked on the school lawn?" Ginny's angry voice echoed indignantly.

"Students can always appeal their marks before the Grading Committee in November should they feel cheated," Lupin mentioned mildly.

"That's beside the point! Common sense dictates that testing in such an environment would cause high levels of stress. No student, under the normal anxiety, could be expected to perform up to par with such an addition." Ginny's lecturing, diction precise in each utterance of pointed syllable, took all who knew her well by surprise.

Only Ron felt the need to comment on it. "Bloody hell, Ginny- you sound like Hermione does when she's explaining her Arithmancy homework!"

"I assure you, _Ronald_, Hermione's not the only one with a brain. Just because I don't like to show off as much doesn't make me any less intelligent," Ginny returned, her voice crisp and unapologetic.

Harry's eyes widened as a flare of anger burgeoned in his chest when he saw Hermione's shoulders dip in shocked hurt before once again straightening. He tried to find her gaze, hoping that she had taken none of the hurtful words to heart. When he finally caught her eyes, pupils abnormally large behind her new frames, the anger found hold in his throat and gave birth to his voice.

"Ginny, would you step out for a minute? I have something I wanted to ask you." The controlled ease in his tone surprised him. He stood back from the table smoothly enough, careful to unclench his fists when they came into view. Ginny rose as well, wariness apparent in her demeanor.

"Dinner was delicious, Molly," he called back as he left behind the kitchen.

He felt the press of curious eyes on his back, one of which was Ron's, he knew. A stab of resentment added itself to the mix of anger in his stomach. It should be Ginny's _brother_ doing what he was about to do, not a school chum or whatever title he fell under. He bit back a sigh and let Ginny enter the parlor in front of him.

She stood at the stoned marble mantle, the fire's blistering fingers matching perfect crimson with her shoulder length hair. The wariness was set deeply in the corners of her pert mouth as she spoke. "So, Harry, what's this all about? A bit sudden, wasn't it- you needing this private interview."

Her attempt at humor fell flat. Harry's lips did not pull back from his frown. "Why are you being so rude to Hermione?"

Ginny's cheeks flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment, he didn't know. "I don't know what you mean."

"You're constantly snapping at her, putting her down whenever she opens her mouth. If she talks at all to me, you insult her and mock her." His voice softened from its tense harshness. "It's not like you, Ginny, to be mean. So I want to know: why?"

Her hand grabbed one of the blown glass baubles that lined the mantle place, her thin short fingers gripping the misshapen figurine as it were life itself. "I don't mean to be _mean_. Honestly." Her voice gentled, the petulance lost. "I suppose she's an easy target."

His jaw loosened in indignation. "So what you're saying is that you're just taking it out on her?"

She replaced the bauble and stepped forward. Her body moved to block the flames and suddenly shadow overtook her fair features and remolded them into something chaotic and unfamiliar. Harry fought to not flinch when she seized his hands. Her grasp was warm and moist, and, like some celestial revelation, he realized it was entirely unwanted.

"No! It's not like that- well, I suppose it is, but-" she broke off, her lips tightening. "You should understand what I mean, Harry. You've been there- I shouldn't have to explain."

She stared up at him, her brown eyes luminous and large. Pupil and iris lost color and definition, and it felt as if her eyes were trying to drown him, trying to force him under some great wave of unwanted affection and feeling.

Harry physically reeled away, snatching back his hands and deliberately moving to block the doorway. "Obviously, I don't understand, Ginny. The only thing I'm seeing is that your treating my best friend- and last I checked, _your _friend- horribly. What's there to understand? Am I missing something?"

Ginny folded her arms, her earnest behavior dropped for a discomfiting childish sullenness. "I shouldn't have to explain- not to you."

His fists were clenched again. From the corner of his eyes, he caught the flicker of the room'sresident shade flicker into substance and then flicker back out. The unworldliness of the moment crashed down on him, and with it went his passion.

"Forget it. Just forget it. You apparently can't see what's wrong with your behavior, so nothing I say will change that." Harry straightened and drew himself to his full height as he gazed down at her, Ginny's lips still turned into a petulant frown. "Good night, Ginny."

Ginny's eyes glared back him, angered and defiant. Harry slowly turned his back on her and went to leave the room, hoping that the dessert that night was something chocolate. He need comfort, for he felt drained as he always did when having argued with a friend.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me!"

Ginny's sudden shout had him reeled about. "What?"

She stomped up to him, fully furious and near spitting in rage. "I will not be dismissed like I'm a little girl- I'm not a CHILD! I get it from my parents enough, my brothers, from every bloody adult who knows about the Chamber- I get it from everyone, so I will not tolerate it coming from you, especially you; you should know better!"

"Know better? Why?" Harry heard his voice dully echo, his mind piecing over her words.

"I'm not a child, Harry. I haven't been since I woke up from that nightmare in my first year. I had the wizarding world's most infamous mass murderer in my head, filling my thoughts- my _first love_ was wasted on the school-age memory of the wizard who murdered your parents! Dear Merlin, Harry, and you ask _why_? Isn't it obvious?"

She stood panting and red faced, eyes bleary with anger induced tears, and Harry found that he felt nothing close to sympathy for her. He felt as though all his misconceptions about youth and childhood had gathered into a physical hand and slapped him across the cheek. Ginny was the embodiment of youth for him, and here she was blazing pure hatred and some of it directed at him. He wished to blame Voldemort for that, but found that he couldn't.

Ginny was, for all that she protested, still a child. Still a whining, self pitying little girl. And, Harry realized, he wasn't much better than she.

"If you're going to blame Hermione for what Voldemort's done simply because she's a nearby target, then you deserve to be treated like you're a child. It's not her fault, Ginny. And," he added as he saw the fury rise up again in her eyes, "it's not mine either."

Harry left the room, fire blazing and Ginny stiffly etched into wall strewn shadows, with his heart oddly at peace. His feet carried him up past the kitchen, half emptied of its occupants, and into the main hall. The discolored rectangle that marked where Mrs. Black once reigned glared back him, as if the painting's character had somehow transferred onto the pale blue wall paper.

He didn't like to argue. The emotions that led to confrontation never left him feeling satisfied like some claimed. The emotions only grew more violent and hot, as if molten earth had changed places with his blood and desperately needed an outlet to erupt from. Pyroclastic words, steaming and poisonous with all their invective venom would pour out, and in the end, once it had all cooled and settled, something unique and beautiful would be left blackened.

So to fight, to debate, to squabble- to question the rightness of another versus one's own special brand of rightness; Harry felt no great accomplishment from it. Ron's misplaced envy had left him lonely, and at that time, he knew little of his supposed other best friend other than that she was good with books and puzzles. All while Hermione had helped and supported him that long year, while Ron stewed and festered like a snotty three year old who was forbidden another bar of chocolate, Harry had thought little of enjoying her company.

He had missed his fun-loving, responsibility-hating, _other_ friend.

And last summer- how did he behave then? Just as equally childish as before. He acted every bit the small minded, self-absorbed teenager Snape accused him of being. Did he try looking for truth in those accusations? Did he ever even bother considering that the words might bear some merit?

Of course not. He reacted and ignored whatever sound advice had been hidden in between the acerbic jibs. He was just as much a child as Ginny, truth was. And considering what he had just said to her, he was now also a hypocrite.

He sighed and blinked his eyes, long gone dry and sticky from glaring at the rectangular patch. Harry lifted a hand to trace the edge of the paper, a tiny part of his mind believing that the hatred that once stewed from the painting must have left a physical trace behind. Instead his fingers met nothing but the smooth touch of paper to skin.

It left him disappointed.

"Thank you."

Harry started at her soft voice, only now realizing his subconscious had heard the careful tread of feet on wood paneling only moments earlier and recognized it as hers.

"What for?" He responded obliquely, hands shoved into his too large jeans.

Hermione smiled, a wry twist in her lips, and leaned up against the stair's banister, a hand lightly tracing one of the spools that ran up between the spires. "For being my champion."

"So you overheard us, then?" he said as he too found a sturdy surface to brace himself against.

She pulled off her glasses and pocketed them distastefully. "Thank you for sticking up for me, but I've understood for a while why Ginny's been acting this way."

"It doesn't matter why. She shouldn't be treating you this way." Harry felt surprised by the breadth in which he reacted. There kept flashing behind his eye lids, ever so subtly, the image of Hermione sprawled in a stillness akin to death on the floor of that horrible room just weeks prior. The desperate impulse to protect her filled him like a need.

"I'm the female of our little threesome, Harry. I'm the one who her mind's picked on as possibly supplanting. It's not a conscious thought, though. More subliminal." She shrugged. "I suppose I can commiserate with that on some level."

"It still doesn't excuse her," he repeated stubbornly.

"I agree, don't get me wrong." Her hand pressed against her forehead, a motion of both supplication and inquiry. "I can't help but feel a bit responsible. She's very right in describing our friendship as somewhat closed off. When two of us aren't off bickering, there's no room for her."

He didn't reply right away, instead allowing the comfortable silence to draw on. Harry couldn't remember if silences between them were always this easy, or if this was a more recent development. Had they both grown up in some small way after the Department of Mysteries? Was that the last step in childhood for them?

If it was, then perhaps it was time for him to act the part of grown-up. At least a small bit.

"Am I like that?" he asked softly, hoping for honesty and hoping that the honesty would put him in the clear.

Hermione's head bowed forward, hair all a tumble over her shoulders and cheeks. "Like Ginny?" He nodded and she continued. "Sometimes. Last summer you were just as emotional and angry; to be truthful, I expected you to be much the same now."

Her clear brown eyes found his from across the small space and she smiled, her lips turned upward in the slightest of considerations. "You've changed, Harry."

His lips could not match her own light heartedness in the revelation. "Perhaps if I had grown up earlier, then I might not have reacted so-"

"Don't. If you blame yourself for Sirius, then I'm to blame as well. You at least have the excuse of emotion clouding your judgment. I have no such defense."

Harry's eyes fell to the floor, heart wrenched in the smooth calculation of her reasoning. He was just as right in blaming himself as she was in blaming herself. Emotions or peer pressure, even if they were reasons, they were no defense.

He felt the firm press of her hand on his shoulder and his head flew back, startled. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shushed him with a soft murmur.

"It's going to be alright, Harry. I know it."

And when she pulled him in for an embrace, her arms ever so fragile when pressed to his back, he felt something warm fill his stomach and steal away his permanent sorrow. As ridiculous as it was to believe, Harry found himself trusting her words.

_try the north end_

**FOUR**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

03FEB2005

0123


	5. FIVE

_**Disclaimer: **Nothing belongs to me._

_**A/N:** Thanks ever so much for the patience and support. I so appreciate the reviews; it's wonderful how encouraging everyone is. My gratitude goes out to: Chimeras-star, OnceUponADecember (incidentally, is that from Anastasia?), auroraziazan, Bumblebee-Queen (such glowing remarks- I hardly feeled owed it), Gerontius. T (wonderful to have such dependable feedback, especially of such calibre), kirjava2, Jade121, Tari Faelivrin, Lupinfan227 (expect this in your box soon), HP-Magic._

_And now- onwards!_

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**FIVE**

_stray lights _

**I**

**LIGHT CREPT IN,** heavily dulled by the dank grey of morning. Hermione couldn't recall a more ominous start of a school year- at least one painted by nature's daily sky based landscape. Color seemed to have been drained and sucked out from all that was normally brilliant and rich. Her skin, paled by a summer spent indoors, glowed in a sunken sheen of grey that seemed to mix and mingle into the black of her school robes.

The only signs of life and color in the booth came from the two siblings who sat across from her. Ron, unusually quiet, stared bleakly out the window, the only sign of movement coming from the brief fluttering of his eyelids every minute or so. His hair, at times less red as it was the deep burnt orange of a sunset caught on the edge of a sea, stood in unbrushed dips and weaves. His sister, ever the picturesque porcelain doll, sat beside him with her hands neatly folded in her lap.

Ginny too was quiet, although her mouth opened more than twice since the Hogwarts Express left the station as if to speak before closing with words unuttered. Hermione could count the number of times they had spoken on one hand since that somewhat climactic confrontation two weeks earlier. The stringent quiet between them bothered her, but she preferred it to the verbal attacks that left her both hurt and guilt ridden.

She hushed down an involuntary sigh and sought out the hazed horizon beyond the train's window. Scotland stretched in an endless roll of muted green hills, the heather that covered much of the open fields untouched by the purple blossoms spring gave them. The stretch of green hues made her think of Harry who slept next to her, his breath soft and evenly paced. And thoughts of Harry, in turn, made her think of George and their 'project.'

As little as Hermione had spoken with Ginny, even less had she spoken with George. Time seemed to have conspired against them, digging up crowded dinner tables, shop responsibilities, school books, and all other sorts of unimportants. She spoke to him the once to tell him of Harry's unattainable invisibility cloak, packed away in a trunk that waited Harry at Hogwarts. Another time, George caught her arm to mutter a quick word that he'd owl her at school.

And that was it. For all that the 'project' might bring to light, it was having a most unfortunate beginning. She had seen nothing of the Archives, not a single page of the Book of Records, and now that she was returning to Hogwarts she'd have to leave that to George and take up her normal position of researcher.

It was a rare moment indeed that Hermione found herself wishing for the front line.

The sea of heather pitched up beside the train tracks, close enough that she could single out the brambles and leaves. Unbidden, that ancient stone altar- column draped, with that whispering sheet of nothingness hiding a brilliant light of yet more nothingness- rose up and planted itself as if physically reachable in that rolling wave of heather; as if she need only break past the glass and there it would it would be, tangible and-

"What are you doing?" Ron's whisper brought her back to reality, and Hermione blinked, drawing back her hand that had reached out as if to grasp something beyond the window.

"Daydreaming," she answered just as softly. Ron nodded and gestured past his sister- who had slumped over in sleep herself at some point during Hermione's brooding- to the door. Just outside the windowed panel stood Neville Longbottom, waiting patiently.

Silently she got up and stretched loose her muscles. She had forgotten entirely- the prefects' meeting with the Head Boy and Girl. She crossed the few steps that made up the booth and patted Harry's slumbering head fondly as she first parted the doors and then closed them behind her.

Neville reacted immediately. He gripped her in an arm wrenching hug that both stole her breath and left her dizzy with sudden overwhelming affection.

He finally set her back down again, and a blazing smile ripped over his plain cheeks. "Hullo Hermione. How are you? I _missed_ you something awful."

Hermione couldn't help the grin that took over most of her lower face. She knew exactly what he meant. "I'm very well, Neville. I missed you, too. I missed everything this summer."

Neville's face darkened momentarily as her words caused unhappy memories to filter through. He glanced behind her into the booth. "How's Harry?"

She shrugged. "Better than I expected. He's...changed." She struggled for the right word. "...he's grown up."

Neville began walking up to the front of the car, his shoulders pitched forward in his trademark awkward stride. "You've changed yourself," he said without turning around.

She paused, surprised. "What do you mean?"

He stopped outside the booth set aside for prefect meetings. Slowly his eyes lifted to her face and he smiled a familiar lopsided grin that never could quite show happiness. "You seem sadder than...well, than before."

"Do I?" she asked slowly, wondering if perhaps his words were true. True, she was quieter and less inclined to socialize. She felt a strange awkwardness when included in Ron's antics, and as much as she once appreciated Ginny's female company, she hadn't the patience for it anymore. Was this what Neville saw? Had he seen so much in just a few moments?

She tried smiling, surprised by the nervousness in the motion. "I don't mean to be depressing."

Neville shook his head. "No, not in that sort of way. I used the wrong word for it. Not sadder...maybe, knowledgeable is a better way to say it."

"Knowledgeable?" Hermione laughed, the smile more at ease. "I've always been bookish, Neville."

Again he shook his head. "Not like that. I'm not very good at explaining, am I?" He paused to consider his words before continuing. "It's as if you suddenly, well, _know_. As if you're aware of certain things, special things."

She stared, put off by his description. "I've just been a bit withdrawn this summer. I didn't get out much."

He looked skeptical, but instead of arguing, opened the booth and ushered her inside. Hermione sat beside him in the enlarged booth, charmed to hold the requisite 24 prefects and Head Boy and Girl. Her eyes widened, first in surprise and then apprehension as she recognized that both the Head Boy and the Head Girl came from the same house.

Elvira Montague and Jerome Dorny both sat, unsmiling, in their Hogwarts school robes, matching scarves of silver and green knotted over their throats.

Beside her, she heard Neville intake a sharp breath. Stephen Cornfoot, a Ravenclaw she once had Arithmancy with, leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Ernie says this is the first time in fifty years that both the Head Girl and Boy came from the same house. First time ever that they've both been from Slytherin."

He straightened only to then bend and whisper into a fifth year Hufflepuff girl's ear. Hermione frowned. She didn't like to pigeon hole people based upon appearances, but Elvira's brother had been captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, and she readily remembered how very vicious he could be. If his sister carried any of those same characteristics- she shuddered.

And then there was Jerome Dorny, who was avoided even within the Slytherin house. He had no friends or associates that she could think of. She could only ever recall seeing him alone, a scowl firmly in place, and his wand constantly grasped as if about to face a firing squad. She did remember during one prefects' meeting last year when someone had complained about continuously finding the prefects' bathroom's lanterns charmed to remove light as opposed to giving it.

Jerome had spoken up then, his voice toneless and threatening- threatening in that no emotion could be heard. "I don't like light when I bathe."

The complainant quickly shut up, and the matter was considered resolved. Hermione shuddered yet again. These were the two students to be this year's role models for the first years- what had Dumbledore been thinking?

"Get quiet, will you? You can gossip later. We have business to attend to." Elvira's frown deepened as she stared the room into silence. "For those of you without eyes and ears, I'm Elvira Montague, and I'm your Head Girl."

"Jerome Dorny, Head Boy," Jerome spoke dully, his words without inflection.

Elvira's eyes narrowed and her lips thinned in annoyance. She shot her counterpart a brief glare before setting in on the meeting. "I'll keep this short. When the train arrives, we're to lead the first years to the boats. That groundskeeper-"

"His name is Hagrid," a voice interrupted, and Hermione turned to see a very determined and still small boned Colin Creevey glaring mutinously in the direction of the Head Girl.

"I don't rightly care. Save your comments for after I've finished," Elvira snapped. "The groundskeeper- _Hagrid_- won't be there to greet them. His replacement, we've been told, should be there, however, he might be late. In the mean time, we're to watch over the first years until the boats are readied. As we certainly don't need all the prefects there, the sixth years will take care of this. The rest of you will ensure that the train is emptied, coaches filled, and all goes as it should."

Jerome stirred briefly to speak, his tone flat. "The sixth years are to stay after the meeting. We'll go as a group."

He looked to Elvira as if to ensure that he had met his quota of involvement. Apparently satisfied, she nodded with a jut of her chin. "That said, are there any questions?"

Hermione was mildly surprised. While a bit brusque, Elvira handled the meeting efficiently, and Jerome at least showed no sign of spite or temper that she could see. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.

A fifth year from Ravenclaw lifted his hand. "When will we have the next meeting?"

Elvira's brow furrowed. "Damn. I had forgotten." She turned to Jerome impatiently. "Help out, will you?"

Jerome blinked, unperturbed, before speaking. "Anyone on a quidditch team?"

Nearly ten hands rose. He nodded, the gesture barely even warranting that description. "Then mark your Thursday evenings off. We'll meet in the library, same office as last year, directly following dinner. Meetings will end when business has ended."

Even if anyone wanted to protest, the dangerously lazy way in which Jerome spoke conjured up all sorts of imaginings, and considering his mysterious persona, there were few who wished to test his mettle. He nodded again and his eyes flicked toward Elvira who merely scowled.

"You're ridiculous, Jerome." She turned back to the prefects. "Well, come on then. The meeting's over. Shove on and out. We have work to do."

She stomped out from the room, and dutifully the seventh and fifth year prefects followed. Those left behind waited for direction, and Jerome promptly responded by yawning. "We have an hour still. Be back then." He then closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.

Neville caught Hermione's eye and smiled nervously before tiptoeing with the rest of the sixth years out from the booth. Once outside, he let out a rush of breath. "Both from Slytherin! I can't believe it!"

"I thought for sure Cho would be Head Girl," Su Li, the other Ravenclaw prefect from their year complained. "Her grades are tops."

"Yeah, but have you ever seen her in charge of a group?" Stephen Cornfoot countered. "When things don't go exactly how she wants them, she gets frustrated and loses her temper. And if anyone points out a mistake she's made, she breaks out crying." He looked disgusted at the thought of someone from his house being so emotional. "It's a bit pathetic really."

"And besides, Elvira's not so bad," spoke up Eloise Midgen timidly, her skin having cleared up wonders since Madame Pomfrey introduced her to one of the magic world's many miracle creams. "I patrolled with her last year, and she's very fair about taking points."

"I suppose," Su said grudgingly, obviously still upset that her housemate hadn't received the honor. "Still, Cho should have at least been a prefect."

"I'd suggest moving on," a quiet voice said from behind the small cluster that had gathered in front of the booth. Hermione followed the voice to its owner, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the perfectly starched uniform of one of Slytherin's sixth year prefects.

"And why's that, Zabini?" she asked archly.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Jerome's terribly cranky if woken prematurely."

This seemed enough of a reason for the group to disburse and soon it was only Hermione left, with Neville poised worriedly at her elbow, in the hallway. Blaise Zabini's eye brow inquired silently.

"Why isn't Malfoy a prefect this year?" she asked directly.

He seemed amused by her forthrightness. "I imagine it's because his father's in Azkaban, wouldn't you? Now that there's no one to demand favors, Professor Snape was able to choose freely." He shrugged. "I'm the logical choice, of course."

"Of course," she said, a touch of sarcasm in her tone. Neville shuffled nervously, obviously longing to leave but not wanting to abandon her. She touched his arm briefly, and relunctantly, he left, casting dubious glances over his shoulder.

"You have your doubts, Granger?" Blaise prodded.

Hermione sighed. "I hardly know you. How am I to judge your merit? Besides, it's not like it's hard to be an improvement on Malfoy."

He surprised her by letting out a dry laugh. "Quite so."

She looked at him again, sensing that a second mental glance was needed. She posed her next question carefully, knowing that much of it was inappropriate, but wanting to ask it all the same. "Have the events of the summer changed things so much then?"

Blaise's lips tightened. "That's none of your business, Granger."

She lifted a hand in appeasement. "I'm not trying to insinuate anything, Zabini. I just...well, I wanted to know. For myself."

He considered her for a moment, features guarded and eyes thoughtful. He finally answered in cautiously arranged words. "Things have...changed. It's more defined."

His response was vague, but Hermione understood the meaning. "Well then-" she broke off awkwardly, wondering how to reply. "I wish you the best," she finished.

Blaise's lips twitched in amusement. "A bit trite of a sentiment, even for a Gryffindor."

She shrugged, a self conscious smile in place. "I know...still."

"Yes," he agreed.

She nodded again and then turned to make her way back to her booth. Even as she walked, she could feel his eyes on her back and wondered what this beginning would later forebear. As she re-opened her booth door and heard the sounds of a riotous game of exploding snap, Hermione thanked the unseen that at least some things remained the same.

**II**

**HARRY KNEW THE** conversation was coming. He'd expected it later, rather than sooner, yet it came to no surprise when he was summoned away after the third day of classes. A typical sort of preamble- that is, no preamble whatsoever, and then, a blank question.

"So...how are things?"

It made him smile; he was used to hearing the many unspoken questions within such simplistic inquiries. _'How are things?'_ translated into: _'Do you need to talk?' _and '_Are you still angry?' _and in this case, _'Do you miss him?'_ For all that it was unvoiced, the implied question was practically redundant. Harry might as well be asked if he was breathing or if his heart was still beating.

Yes, yes, and _yes_.

"Things are fine, Ron." He answered dishonestly and tried to justify it by arguing compassion. Ron didn't want to hear his worries- it was a question that friendship made obligatory.

Ron shuffled his feet and kicked at the red soil that lined the grounds of the quidditch pitch. "You sure?" He rushed on, preventing any answer. "I'm asking because you've been quiet and...er, _withdrawn_."

Harry raised an eyebrow at that. "Withdrawn? Really."

Ron's cheeks flushed a bit, obviously embarrassed. "Hermione's word, not mine."

"And how would you say it?" Harry asked quietly, fixing his eyes determinedly on the slowly dimming horizon.

He could practically feel the discomfort oozing off of Ron in hot, heavy waves. "I'd say you're being distant."

Harry felt suddenly angry and tore his gaze away from the red studded sky to face his best friend. "So what, is our friendship getting too boring for you then? Are you upset because I'm not paying you enough attention?"

Ron lifted his hands in unconscious defense. "No, Harry- that's not what I meant at all! Only...you weren't like this at the Headquarters, and we all thought it'd be worse there."

"Well you thought wrong," Harry snapped. "Hogwarts is worse." His voice softened and he gestured to the open field. The upraised stands, naked in their lack of house dress, had seen so much on this field. The tall spires had watched, their seats filled, as people he loved once laughed and made memories. His father and mother had laughed here. Sirius had laughed here.

Grimmauld had no such happy memories. Hogwarts did, and so it was worse, oh yes, the pain was much worse here.

"Harry, I'm no good at this." Harry felt Ron's calloused hand land on his shoulder and he didn't shrug it off. "All I know is that you're my best mate. I know you'd die for me, and I'd die for you. So...what I mean is, I want us to go on being best mates and doing what friends are supposed to do."

Harry studied Ron's freckled face, open and honest, incapable of subterfuge. Tall and still awkward, long arms encased in a faded brown sweater- he stopped. Long sleeves...had he seen Ron in anything other than long sleeves during the summer? He should have, 12 Grimmauld Place was many things, but pleasantly cool was not one of them.

The long sleeves made him wonder. The long sleeves made him worry.

"I bet you're pale under those sleeves of yours," Harry tried to remark casually, ignoring the non sequitor of his reply.

Ron stumbled over the words. "Don't know what you mean-"

"What's wrong with your arms, Ron? Why are you hiding them?"

Ron paled, and then scowled, his ears an angry red. "Forget about my arms. I want to know why you're avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you." Harry took a step forward. "Tell me about your arms."

"There's nothing wrong with them!" Ron spluttered, unconsciously retreating from Harry's advance.

"Then why won't you let me see them. If there's nothing wrong, then this shouldn't be a problem," he argued.

Ron stopped moving, his features worn with defeat. "You want to know? Then fine." Without further preamble, he tore off his sweater and stared stonily at the ground, waiting for comment.

In the dimming light, it took all of five seconds before Harry's eyes could adjust. When hazy detail grew into better form, he inwardly gasped. Bruised, vicious lines of red and purple strung over and under the pale skin of Ron's lanky arms, warping their shape and color into a monstronsity of deformity. Harry hadn't known, hadn't any idea that the injuries his friend sustained never healed. He opened his mouth to ask, but was silenced by a lengthy sigh.

Ron shrugged back into his sweater and stood limply. "Madame Pomfrey thought they would fade, and the marks on my neck and chest did, eventually." He stared down at his safely ensconced arms. "The lines on my arms didn't though."

"Does it hurt?" Harry asked in a hushed voice, as if the question demanded the soft utterances of a whisper.

"Sometimes. I get these weird dreams..." Ron's voice trailed off and he shook his head to clear his thoughts. "When I wake up, the aching stops."

"Have you told anyone? Your mum? Dumbledore?" Ron shook his head no. "Maybe Hermione can find something in the libr-"

"No." Ron's lips were set determinedly. "I don't want her to know."

"Well, why not?" Harry demanded.

"I just don't! It's my problem to deal with." Ron fixed his jaw stubbornly. "If Hermione finds out, I'll become some sort of project- an experiment."

"That's not true," Harry protested.

"Yes it is, and you know it," Ron insisted stubbornly. "Things changed last year."

Harry felt bewildered. What did Ron mean? Hermione was their best friend- it was always them, the three of them. Nothing had changed about that. Nothing.

Ron sighed again, and Harry couldn't remember when he had ever heard his friend sound so serious. There was something more defined in Ron's light blue eyes, a sort of resigned understanding. It was as if Ron had seen the future and discovered it unchangeable.

"I'm not as smart as she is. I'm not as mature. I don't care about the same things, and truth be said, if you weren't my friend Harry, I probably wouldn't worry a bit over You-know-who." Ron lowered his eyes and smiled weakly. "It's okay though."

"Ron, that's not true. You know it's not. You're my best fri-"

Ron held up his hand and halted the rush of words. "I said it's okay, Harry. Last year, things came into place. Hermione has her purpose, and I have mine. She's smart enough and clever enough to help you, and me, I'm here to remind you that there's life outside of Death Eaters and prophecies."

Harry didn't know how to answer. He wanted to still protest, to still argue that no, Ron had it all wrong. But a wiser, smarter part of him recognized the truth in his friend's words. It was not a circle they formed- he, Ron, and Hermione- but an angle, with him at the vertex and Hermione and Ron to counterbalance. Hadn't it always been that way though? Hadn't it always been one friend for a laugh and the other for a partner?

Ron shouldn't claim stupidity as his designation though. It was Harry who fell under that title. He never recognized what was facing him head on until seconds too late.

He considered what to say to his friend who stood patiently, cheeks flushed by the evening wind. He considered the tall spires that towered over head and the warm earth beneath his feet. Near and far, the two partnered to fix setting and memory. It made sense, in a way, to have discovered such things juxtaposed against such fixtures.

"I suppose we'll have quidditch try outs this year again," he said at last.

"Ginny's all set to try out for an open position, and I expect we could get that third year, Leeman, to try for a beater. He's got a killer arm." The relief in Ron's voice was palpable.

Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and began the short amble back to the waiting castle. He wouldn't speak of it again, and, he much imagined, neither would Ron.

**III**

**HABIT HAD DONE **away with the need for the map ages ago, and despite a few months of avoidance, his feet knew the pathway intimately. He didn't even bother with lighting his wand, the darkness allowing more familiarity than a showcase of the cavernous walls and damp earthen floor. The only strangeness from the journey came from his twin's absence, but considering the circumstances, Fred's company might have caused a few problems.

One of such being questioning his current motives. Even George had to admit them suspect.

It wasn't so much a question of having missed her, for he hardly knew her well enough to claim that. And it wasn't that he found their conversations particularly engaging; they had spoken only a handful of times in the past three weeks. It was very simple actually- just a bit depressing to admit.

With Hogwarts gone and merely an institution once attended, whatever friendships George had built there over the years had filtered into nothingness. Perhaps it was because he and Fred left without properly graduating; he wasn't sure. Fred had Lee Jordan who had always been more of Fred's friend than George's. Alicia Spinnet had dropped a letter via her owl a week earlier, but only to order a gag cake for her older brother.

There was no one, outside of his family, with whom he could run to and share the good news. And he wanted to share it with someone. Almost anyone even.

So three hours earlier, after having left Fred with a new shop clerk to train, George scooped up a few slices of his mother's spiced pie, a warm robe, and Apparated into the Honeyduke's cellar, located in Hogsmeade proper. The passage was easy enough to remember, and even easier to navigate. His feet followed the oft frequented path with a quick ease that soon had him back in Hogwarts, his first time back since having flown off in that flurry of an exit months' earlier.

And even the steps taken after that felt incredibly simple. A quick dart past the hallway protected by a hunched back statue, and then a light tap of the knuckle against the framed portrait of Velma the Vile. Through the portrait, past the Ravenclaw House entrance (the one secret he had kept even from his twin), and up to the back entrance of the Gryffindor common room.

It was an unspoken rule that the students were not to know of the back entrances. Long ago, when there wasn't a mad wizard running about cursing and causing general mayhem, the witches and wizards of Hogwarts had the time to construct the many passageways and suprise stairwells that made up the scholarly castle. It was decided then that the Houses really needed to have a second entrance. A vote was taken, the motion passed, and then, the Thin Friar's portrait was moved in to Gryffindor's common room, slightly to the left of the fireplace.

At the time, the Thin Friar had only taken a vow of blindness, and so he served to some end to sound out a warning should any villain attempt entrance. However, two hundred years later, the Thin Friar decided to make an additional vow: silence. While this helped the Gryffindor House's safety little, this vow certainly made George's current escapade far less complicated.

Careful to not knock the portrait open, George stood on tiptoe to look through the Friar's long vanished eyes. The common room greeted him like a memory: nothing changed except the enhancements fondness and absence mutually designate. The shadow of a flickering hearth cast a red glow past the few occupants. His sister laid tucked up in a tartan blanket with an open book and several lengths of scrawl covered parchment. Jack Sloper, a seventh year, was sprawled out next to her, his thick straw blond hair girlishly long and undeniably curled.

George bit back a snicker and stepped back from the portrait. As homily ridiculous the scene had been, it hadn't contained his wanted person. But where to find her? He knew so little of her, having never said much to her in years past other than an occasional 'good morning' and the requisite decline of offering SPEW funds. There was the library, though. . .

He dodged back through the side passages, taking care to cross halls only when absent of students. Those outside of Gryffindor, he was fairly certain of bluffing his way past, and in his black robe and the trademark Weasley red hair, those who saw his blur shrugged it off as Ron needing a kitchen raid.

As he walked and at times dashed, a sort of brooding fell over him, and it was as if age had raised its hand to polish his cheek.

Time wandered without age in Hogwarts. George felt the same each time he entered the castle with its unchanging walls- unchanged in that they forever changed. He was eleven again; eleven years old, frightened and excited, and ever so hopeful. He had dreams then, separate dreams from those of his family and brother. Only eleven and yet he felt himself his own man. He imagined a home of his own, some place deep in the city, in any city. The walls would be his own, the furniture his own, the paint and tile and wood paneled windows- all his own.

A castle of his own making. And- there would be quiet. A wonderful quiet that came from privacy and selfishness. A family, perhaps, one day. A daughter perhaps...a small, little thing that would cling to his legs and think him wonderful. And for the daughter, a mother. His wife; and she would be... that is, she would not-

He stumbled over an unlevel stone and careened heavily into the hall's brittle wall. The present, for all that it appeared the same as his mind's wanderings, gave his scraped cheeks a tangible feel. Such thoughts; really now. There were times for such things, and now was not one of them.

He stilled in the currently used passage. There should be, if he remembered correctly, a cracked stone somewhere along the wall that would open into one of the library's seldom used alcoves. In the darkness, his wand forgotten momentarily, George felt for the taletell crack, his fingers searching along the damp stone until they met their prize. With a firm press from his index and thumb, the seemingly thick wall shifted and dematerialized. Light brandished its hand across his face, and the library was seen.

He found her, at long last, hidden back between a partially emptied shelf and a faux wall created many decades earlier. In her kiddy-corner of a shelter, she sat crossed legged, papers strewn about her, each with different diagrams drawn across them. Her wand lay unused beside her, and perhaps even stranger, a small pile of what had to be dirt seemed to be her current object of study.

Instead of immediately speaking, George decided to watch her. Framed so neatly under the canopy of discarded shelves and moth spotted chairs, lips pinched with determination, and that unforgetable riot of hair refusing its braid- she appeared unnaturally vulnerable. He suddenly felt the voyeur, the peeping tom, seeing her in such a state, so unaware.

At last, disliking the warm quiet that suffocated his throat, he spoke.

"Hermione?"

His whisper sounded like cannon fire in the death of unturned pages and unwanted books. She reacted as such, with a flurry of limbs, and in the midst of it, her wand left on the ground. Instead, she greeted him with a reactionary jab of arms and fingers, and before her most likely weak punches landed, recognition flashed in her eyes.

"George...my goodness, George! What were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?" She paused, but only for breath. "What are you even doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too, Hermione. Matter of fact, I had this sudden urge to wander about Hogwarts. Imagine that, right? And in my ramblings, I thought, why not go check on the resident bibliophile. So, here I am." The words weren't what he wanted. The sarcastic tone was not what he intended. And that strange swell of hurt, when Hermione responded with something other than warm welcome, was not what he expected.

To react, more than to err, is human. He was more human than most in both regards.

"Well, forgive me for being startled. No one ever comes back here; no one would want to." She eyed him carefully, her brown gaze somewhat guarded for a meeting between friends. "Is something the matter? Did you learn something new?"

"No. Nothing like that," he said, still feeling somewhat discomfitted.

She let out a small breath. "Then what is it? I don't believe your story about needing a jaunt down memory lane, for all that you made such a grand exit."

"And I couldn't have come just for your exquisite company?" George flashed a smile, falling to his usual defenses and hoping to move things to easier waters.

His words drew the opposite. Hermione's shoulders tensed and her eyes suddenly found attention elsewhere from his face. "Don't tease me, George. I don't like it."

"Hermione, I was joking, but seriously, I did come for a reason sort of like that."

She jumped on to his prepostional phrasing. "Really. So what do you need to know then? I'm a bit full up with my time at the moment, but I'm sure I can fit in whatever piece of information is too far beneath you to look up yourself. And because we're such friends, I'll even do it for free. From the goodness of my ill begotten heart."

She was angry, of that he was now certain. What he had said, what words he had used to pique up such a storm- some mysteries remained unsolvable. He had nothing of brilliant intuition. He lacked the sensitivity to read another's emotions. He had hardly enough sensitivity to read his own.

He responded in the only way he knew how. Honestly. "I received a bit of good news, that's all. I wanted to tell someone, and I thought, well, I could tell you."

"Oh. _Oh._" She knelt down to collect her papers, and he sensed her nervousness even as she gathered and neatened and organized- anything at all, it seemed, to keep her hands busy. She murmurred further apologies as she avoided his gaze yet again. "I'm sorry, George. I should know better, I suppose. I keep doing that- getting defensive. It's just-"

She stood, and finally he could read what she was feeling. Her embarrassment showed that same stain of vulnerability that he had seen in her silent study. "You don't have to explain. I forget sometimes that my humor isn't always appreciated."

"It's not that, George. Really, your humor's _fine_. It's more a lacking on my part. I'm a bit sensitive about- and really, it's all just stupid vanity, honestly!- about how I look. I know I'm not very attractive, and so when you tease or joke about me being maiden fair or some other frivolty, I get defensive. I can't help but thinking you're making fun _of _me, rather than _at_ me. So, I apologize for snapping. It wasn't very nice."

"Hermione, you look fi-" and it was there, the knee jerk response George and all other males felt necessary to offer when a female mentioned a physical failing. He stopped though, the word tipped precariously on his tongue, and he considered. He really considered. This girl, this- ha, now he was getting ridiculous- young woman standing in front of him, the black of her school robe draining her face from any real color, her hair muted from a glossy shine or any other such glory, those new spectacles of hers giving her age not necessary, and quite immediately, the word vanished.

'Fine' was far too lean a word. What was she? What was the right word for how she appeared, how she appeared to him in this one moment?

And then it, too, was there. The right description, the artist's choice of adjective. The grammarian's choice of modifier. And more presently, George Weasley's token truth.

"You're-" and he uttered it silently, his courage nothing in comparison to a slowly dawning realization: _classic_. More than that, _strong, fragile, tangible,_ and impossibly, _warm_. "You're fine, Hermione."

She laughed, and brushed off the whole segue with the high sound and a wave of her hand. "Now that we've pandered off my feminine insecurities, what's your good news?"

Still reeling from the uncomprobable, George heard the announcement from his lips with a strange sense of the anti-climactic. "I've been made an official member of the Order." With a laugh, somewhat self consciously, he added. "The owners of Diagon Alley's newest joke shop are now both proud members of the Order of the Phoenix."

"That's wonderful! Congratulations, George! Congratulations- and, what was the induction like? Are you allowed to tell? Oh- and, are you going to tell the Order about your discovery yet?" Hermione's enthusiastic response was exactly what he both hoped for and wanted. He grinned, and settled into one of the patched up chairs, a film of disuse layering up on his robe.

"First though, Miss Granger, I brought us a bit of tuck to properly celebrate." George reached into his front pocket and withdrew the lumpy package that held two pieces of his mother's spiced apple pie.

Hermione eyed the mishapen pieces, oozing out cinnamon and apple, with a wary eye. "We haven't any forks or plates, though."

He grabbed a piece, and with deliberate carelessness, took a whopping bite. "Eat up, Hermione. They're still warm."

Hesitantly, she picked up the other piece, and despite failing miserably, tried to take a nibble without spreading the sticky mess across her fingers. Watching her with one eye, he finally answered her latter most of questions.

"I'm holding out on the Order, yet. I want to be sure. And Hermione," he smothered a laugh as her efforts to stay neat turned the pie piece into an even worse mess, "it's _our_ discovery. Yours and mine now."

Hermione's eyes dashed upward, once, to his own before returning to her present endeavor. He heard her words nevertheless. A silent 'thank you,' a muted, wordless pronouncement of gratitude. And he hoped she heard his own.

"Tell your mum thank you for me, would you?"

"Absolutely."

"What about the induction? Can you tell me about it?"

"It depends... whatI'llget in return."

"_George._"

"A man can't deny his nature."

"But a dog can be trained, so I have faith in malekind yet."

"For that particular insult, you learn nothing."

Thirty-three minutes past curfew, George led Hermione back to the Thin Friar, to those unseeing eyes and muted tongue. He watched her tiptoe back into safety and wave a silent good-night. When he finally returned back to the Burrow and his slumbering family, he tugged at his aching cheeks.

The smile simply wouldn't go, and he was hard pressed to explain why.

_stray lights_

**FIVE**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

22MAR2005

1946


	6. SIX

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing._

_**A/N: **Once again the support was overwhelming. Many thanks goes out to: BrennaM, queen-of-monkey-magic, sexy-jess, kirjava2 (lord, but I love seeing the same people review each time; it has this whole neat connection feel to it), queenofdiamonds1 (repetitious much? lol), thatsmydog (comparing me to Bronte? I can't decide whether to shudder and scream 'no, I'm not quite that melodramatic' or humbly say thanks.), oOFLiPNiTiZeDOo (thank you!), Ciardra (to borrow the saying, there are plots within plots within plots and hopefully I'll tie them all in together), Rurouni Star (I found the time! Although, it wasn't 'in' me, but rather stolen by a winged rapscallion formerly known as my boyfriend. Got rid of that problem though.), and Bumblee-Queen (thanks ever so much; I'm afraid though that this chapter isn't quite up to par. You'll see what I mean as you read.)_

_On a final note: I am in search again for a beta. Should anyone be interested, feel free to state so. You can leave it in a review or post up at my livejournal, the link to which is on my author's page. So now, onwards, and I apologize ahead of time. This is still rathe rough._

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**SIX**

_try it with lemon_

**I**

**THE MAN STOOD **a few centimeters short of average, and that was the extent of his mediocrity- looks-wise at least. Furiously curled hair that coiled in tight springs of ribboned grey wound up and over his brow and circled in to form a wreathy crown of misbegotten coiffure. From the tip of that curl lined brow carved an outrageous nose, finely lined, and etched with the firm smoothness of eternal youth. His wrinkle crinkled eyes laughed hilarity at his nose and those youthfully aged curls. Wide-set, and nearly all pupil, his eyes peered out like beady buttons. And that mouth! Too many teeth and too little lip that all disappeared into a chin that belied a familial conference.

When such features were tossed in with the colorless spritz of a robe, untamed tuffs of wool jutting out in static announcements of a much needed wardrobe change- when such features were tossed in with that robe, the latest DADA instructor looked every ounce of his moniker.

Professor K.A. Bawling, or 'Baa Bawling' as his students called him, taught his courses with the firm hand of one convinced of his superiority. There came not the usual sorts of recommendations or suggestions in his class, but opinions disguised as irrefutable Facts. Professor Bawling not only sermoned the Truth, but the Absolute Truth. After the first two weeks of classes, the students began to realize that disagreeing with Baa Bawling was not worth the fury of a professor hell bent on indoctrinating the masses. Detentions were soft euphemisms for a new sort of torture Bawling developed that took the theme and shape of being his test subject for the younger years.

The Gryffindors took, perhaps, the longest the recognize this particular fact of life, but even they finally woke up to the reality after Seamus Finnigan returned from one of Bawling's special sessions decked out in purple stripes, a new bald spot, and an extra arm protuding from his shoulder. It was decided by the general populace, in an unvoiced census, that mouthing off could be better saved for another time. Baa Bawling was not worth it.

It was rather incredible then, when, on the day after her sixteenth birthday, Hermione Granger decided to speak up.

Bawling began as he always did, clothing askew, seedy mouth open, and wand brandished. He paced three times up and down the classroom's perimeter, stopping the usual six times to stare broodingly at the floor. When he had finished with the routine, he pointed to the blackboard in the front of the room and waved his wand the once. Bold words inscribed themselves: _Cruciatus- the Ministry Myth_.

As soon as the words had written themselves, Bawling began the lecture.

"As I mentioned during the last lecture, since its inception in the early 1700s, the Cruciatus myth was sponsored and spread by several incidious membership groups secretly created by then Minister of Magic, Lesley Roddington. The myth gained such strength by the mid 1700s that Roddington's opposition banked upon the curse to incite fear and force votes in their favor." He paused to flash a sardonic smile. "Roddington's bright idea obviously backfired."

A hand shot up near the back of the class and its owner then spoke without being recognized. "Professor Bawling, sir, are you saying that the Cruciatus isn't real?"

Bawling's terse smile flattened. "Longbottom is it? I've heard of your incompetance, but your hearing problem was not mentioned. Have you heard nothing of what I've said? Allow me to put it plainly: the Cruciatus is a myth created to foster fear. Nothing more, nothing less."

Neville's features darkened in a swelling mixture of embarassment and anger. Perhaps it was his inability to properly vocalize his protests that triggered her meddling. Perhaps it was merely that no true seeker of knowledge can abide the forceful teaching of ignorance. Or perhap it was only that she was sick and tired of hearing such ludicrous drivel spouted three times a week.

It was at precisely seven minutes afterone o'clock that Hermione decided enough was enough and stood up with a violence of motion that sent her stool reeling back off balance.

"Professor Bawling."

The man rocked back on his heels, surprise and annoyance in equal posession of his features. "Granger? What is so important that you've interrupted me?"

"I wish to inquire as to the source of your research, sir," she bit out in steady, diction precise tones. Her classmates inhaled as a whole and waited for the response.

"You wish...to inquire...as to the source...of _my_ research. Did I hear you correctly, Granger? Are you honestly questioning a professor as to his sources?" Bawling asked, incredulity slowing his words to mere tiptoes.

"Yes, sir. It's that exactly. I wish to know."

Bawling's skin taught face slowly spread in a jeering smile. His small, blindingly white teeth glistened from behind his thin lips, and it appeared as if there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to strike down at this questioner and smite her with hellfire. Thankfully for all in the room, he opted for words rather than brimstone.

"It's looks as if you're about to be disappointed then, Granger. Instead, I'll supply you with some more relevant information. You're to come here, to my classroom, every day at four for the Slytherin third years' course, and avail yourself to the target practise of ten willful children. I imagine you'll not care so much about _my sources_ after two weeks of activity."

Thunder sounded from beyond the thick walls and the sudden unleashing of a morning's heavy cloud gathering sent the steely echo of raindrops clattering across the classroom. Hermione's clenched lips did not twitch or falter during the pronouncement of her punishment, nor did her folded hands fist into angry gestures of defiance. Instead, her mouth loosened into a pacifying smile and the palms opened to show understanding. Her words, however, spelt out the proper fury.

"Professor Bawling, you are a fraud."

The breath inhaled moments earlier was further incased by another audible gulp of air. The odd purple color of Bawling's twisted features darkened and Hermoine went on without pause.

"You've spewed out garbage and misinformation since the moment you arrived here. We've had the fullrundown of inept professors, from the criminally idiotic to the clinically insane, however, this is the first time we've had to suffer through the self inforced ignorance of someone with your level of arrogance. And I, for one, will not stand for it."

She grabbed up her texts, shoved them into her bag, and marched back around her desk, leaving her Ravenclaw partner gapping in equal shock and admiration. Bawling found his voice before she made two more steps.

"Hermione Granger! Fifty points from Gryffinor for your disrespect! And another fifty points for such audacity!" he bellowed, his beady eyes widening to buttons in his hollow face.

"It doesn't matter, Professor. I expect to see you gone from Hogwarts by tonight. I'm going to the Headmaster as soon as I've left this room, and once I've informed him of your ravings on the Cruciatus, we'll see if those points disappear." Her eyes glanced back over the still silent classroom, and something in their muteness seemed to spur her on. Indignation ripened her voice, and with her bag still clenched firmly to her chest, she launched out yet again.

"For that matter, how dare you even suggest that that vile curse is only a myth? How dare you say that when there are those of us who've seen its affects- seen the horrors it puts a person through? You miserable, little man- you've insulted the legacy of every Auror who went against Voldemort and felt the poison of the Cruciatus, and you dare threaten me with point taking?"

She waited no longer and firmly marched from the room, the fury of her words still echoing dully with the spatter of rain and hum of thunder. Another gasp was heard as the speechbound classmates refound their breaths, and as the door shut behind her, the sound of a thrown stool rumbled up through the cobblestone. Hermione managed four more steps before the ramifications of her actions hit her with the full force of a seven ton pile of bricks.

She sagged against the hallway wall, mindless of wrinkling a complaining tapestry under the pull of her brace. She had just insulted and threatened a teacher- forget having set a professor on fire, this took all prior offenses and pushed them to last place. Her cheeks warmed and her eyes tickled; there was no way around this. Not after that altercation; she would most likely be expelled.

This realization appeared to strengthen her prior resolve, however. Like any spiteful member on a thoroughly sinking ship, she wanted to take down the captain with her. If she was to be sent to the streets, then by all that is a deity, Baa Bawling would go down as well.

Hermione straightened, fixed her wrinkled collar, and re-adjusted her prefects pin. Horrible, horrible man! She had dealt with his insidious nonsense since the beginning of term, had listened to him lecture on how this curse and that curse were lies created by the Government and the Law, and the worse part was witnessing how cowed everyone was. Because no one took him seriously, ignoring for a moment the potency of his detentions, nothing was done! She could tolerate Lockheart with his posturing, but she simply could not remain silent with the ignorant trash Bawling disgorged.

"Intolerable..." she muttered to the empty hallway. A mustached portrait snorted in reply. She managed three more steps before an unwanted voice called out.

"Hermione!"

Oh by all that was sanctified- she did not want to deal with him now. She didn't want to hear whatever scolding he'd give her, but besides that, she was still angry. And hurt, still terribly, shamefullyhurt. Resolutely, she ignored him and continued marching down the hallway.

He was faster than her, as most were, and caught her elbow with his palm not ten paces later. "What were you thinking?" he panted, the incredulity plain even in his slightly out of breath voice.

"I was thinking that Neville's parents were driven to insanity by a curse that man was calling a myth," she replied coldly. "Now, let go of my arm, Harry. I'm going to see the Headmaster."

He did not let go. Instead, Harry planted his feet squarely and all but yanked her back. "It's not worth it, and you know it. Bawling's not going to be fired because he's teaching rubbish. Has any professor been fired for teaching rubbish? Binns still teaches as a ghost, for pete's sake."

She whirled around on him, angry that he would choose this as a time to doubt her. "So I'm to say silent while this man tells first years, muggle-borns who've never heard of such things, that it's all fake? Well, Harry Potter, I'm happy that you can sit quiet, but I cannot."

He let her go, and she stomped away, her head held high and her anger still boiling. They were both like this, always. If she felt strongly about anything, they laughed at it or openly patronized her. Like SPEW- they didn't think it was important, so they made fun of the idea. Couldn't they understand? Couldn't Harry understand that if it was the other way around, it wouldn't matter what she thought about it personally. If it was important to one of her friends, then she'd make it important to herself as well.

"That's not fair, and you know it." He was back beside her again, matching her pace instead of holding her back. "You're just angry right now, so you're not thinking it through properly."

This stopped her. He was questioning her rationality? "So I'm being a bull headed female, is that it?" she asked in a flat voice. "An irrational, overly sensitive female."

"No!" He threw up his hands, his throat turning red from irritation. "I'm saying that maybe it would be best if you apologize and take the detention. What good will it do to make open war with a professor?"

"He's teaching impressionable young children, Harry. He's teaching them lies and forcing them to believe those lies. It's the worst thing a teacher can ever do."

"I can think of worse," he muttered darkly.

"Can you, though? Bawling is teaching that the curse Voldemort has used to torture countless innocent people is something invented by right wing conspirators. He's teaching that these people who claim persecution and victimization are nothing more than attention grabbing frauds, or even worse, propagandists. It's subversive, Harry. It's horrible." Hermione couldn't understand why this was so hard for him to acknowledge.

"You could get expelled, though!"

Ah, and there it was. A reason at long last. "Worried you'll lose your money train?" she asked in a tone much lighter than she felt.

"What?"

She was angry now. Far angrier than she was at Bawling, and in a small way, this made her even more upset. The one who should inspire a trembling rage should be that little man, not her best friend. "I heard you. You and Ron."

Harry looked confused. "Hermione, speak plainly. I don't-"

"I am!" she shouted and threw her heavy satchel to the ground. "I heard you both, last Friday in the library. Talking about how I'll start a goblins' rights group next. Talking about how I'll probably start in on doxies after that. About how I'd be a social invalid if not for you."

"Hermione, it wasn't like that at all!" Harry protested, having gone pale from her words.

"Really? So when Ron said, 'At least we get better marks with her' and you laughed, it really wasn't at all what it sounded like. It didn't sound like two people making fun of their supposed friend and then cruelly and openly suggesting that the only reason they keep her around is for the homework scores." She reared up into his space, hurt and anger blinding her. "Because that's how I took it."

"Hermione..." Harry stared down at her, and she realized in an off handed way that he was finally taller than her. Not by much, but still, taller than her. He had grown. Ron had grown. And now obviously, she was somehow in the way.

It made her feel weak, and she pulled back slowly, reaching to reclaim her satchel from the stone floor. "Just go away, Harry. I don't want to see you right now. I'm still too hurt to be rational about it," she added bitingly.

"You've got it all wrong," he continued to protest even as she walked away from him. "We were talking about how we were worried about you. About how you're constantly in the library, how we never see you at all, and even then it's because you had to be forced against your will."

"Then you have nothing to feel bad about, do you?" she stated peevishly. "If it's just me misunderstanding, then surely I'll get over my proclivities and come back to the fold soon enough."

"Hermione..." Harry finally stopped jogging beside her. "Just stop for a moment, will you!"

Hermione whirled around to face him. "I have more important things to do than stand around and listen to you find a way to undo the fact that while I was busy trying to help _you_, you were having a fine go at my expense. Save your laughing at me for someplace I'm not known to haunt."

"What do you mean 'help me?'" Harry asked slowly, doing as he much did in any argument- displacing its origin with something less emotional. Hermione was not to be tricked so easily.

"When am I ever doing anything not connected to you? School work is no longer an effort, Harry. I'm in library with you always first and center in my mind, trying to find new ways to help you." Her voice softened, her heart feeling the defeat of its outer walls. "I just wish you and Ron had thought to make fun of me elsewhere."

"Hermione, I am telling you the truth. You were listening in, you heard it out of context. Ron isn't your friend because of school work- he does too poorly for that possibly to be true, and you know it."

He was touching her arm now, his hand warm against her skin, and she wished to believe him, only- "I need to see Professor Dumbledore, Harry. Let's save this for another time."

She turned away from him and tapped the gargoyle that watched over the Headmaster's office on the nose. A second passed and the curved stairway descended. She stepped on its bottom stair and said softly, without glancing behind, "You're important to me, Harry Potter, and I'm not going to desert you. Just please, don't laugh at me. Not you."

She kept silent the additional words: _let me pretend that you never do, and certainly never at me._ She tried not to think of it anymore as the stair case rose, bringing her to the seldom visited office. Her last time there had been under the unfortunate rule of Umbridge, and that was another memory she'd rather not think of. The stair stopped its travel, she remembered her task at hand, and when the door opened to reveal the ever sage features of Albus Dumbledore, she pushed aside all other thought.

"Sir, I've come to raise a complaint against Professor Bawling."

**II**

**GEORGE SIGHED, AND** for a brief moment, cursed his choice of profession. He cursed that it was still new and that the help couldn't yet be trusted to handle the weekend closings. He cursed that Fred had a girlfriend and a social life, and at best, all he had were clandestine meetings at Hogwarts with a girl who probably saw more attractiveness in a pile of papers than in him. He sighed and grumbled that yet again he had been left with the Saturday night closure and did not find his bed until nearly two that morning. A late night meant a late rise, and that threatened his morning ritual, his rite of beginning.

His mornings were his sanctuary, a time when near everyone still slept, leaving a blissful, tranquil quiet, and since his moving out of the Burrow, his mornings had gained an even heightened enjoyment. The grating protested under his bare feet, and he was mindful to step lightly as he climbed up past the thirteenth floor. The retired couple who lived there kept their bed near the window and often had it open. He passed by their window uneventfully and stepped out onto the roof top cum garden that made up the building's final story.

The grass bent beneath his feet, and the soft touch brought a tired smile to his face. George crouched down to plug in his hot plate and set the already coffee ground packed percolator on it. He discreetly transfigured apaperclip into a lounge chair and settled himself for his daily greeting to the world. Dawn, as was its habit, would raise its pastel touched skin momentarily and scatter its colorful largess over the city.

Fred hadn't liked the building, claiming it was inconvenient and too far away from the magical center of London for his preference. George agreed with all of this, but stuck with his decision. The rooftop had decided it for him. The landlady was a crippled woman who climbed the fourteen floors every day and ran her hands rugged through the soil her husband had transplanted onto this man-forged building. George saw her on that day a month earlier, hobbling up the stairs and then saw her labor of love. Kumquot trees clustered in each corner, white mums surrounding them, and in the center, almost impossibly so, grew a fig tree.

George saw that tree and signed the lease not ten minutes later.

Fred chose a different residence, and for the first time in their life, the Weasley twins did not wake to the other's presence. George surprised himself by feeling no loneliness in his solitary home. He felt nothing that signaled an unfillable void in his life. He was perfectly fine, it seemed, without his other half around. It made him wonder if perhaps, having been a twin all his life, there wasn't something wrong in that kind of thinking. To finish another's sentence, to know another's thoughts so easily- didn't this just mean familiarity? Not, perhaps, the special sense people liked to give to twins.

He settled down in the transfigured chair and breathed deeply. The percolator was near hissing, the bitter scent of the coffee layering the air with its heavy wakefulness. He drew up the lapdesk he kept stored in a bin, and withdrew a sheet of paper and a pen. Mornings were his time for correspondence as well, and this particular bit of writing held a small portion of guilt.

He supposed he should have remembered, having only witnessed five years of present giving and cake blowing. He wasn't that oblivious, after all. Instead though, the date passed by without any momentary blip of recognition. He had forgotten entirely until he received his monthly letter from Ron. The penmanship was instantly known; only his younger brother wrote with such obvious effort, striving to make each word and letter a world unto its own. Scrawled ever so carefully, after two full paragraphs of complaints about the first quidditch practises, was the damning sentence. _'We managed to drag Hermione out from the library long enough to give her a birthday cake and some presents...'_

George hadn't sent even a note, which he most certainly would have if he had remembered. Remembered, of course being the operative word. But now that he had his sheet of paper and his pen, he faltered. What did one say when a birthday's forgotten? What does one say to a _girl_ when her birthday's forgotten? What was _he_ supposed to say to _her_ at all?

_Dear Hermione, I'm terribly sorry I forgot your birthday. I guess it just slipped my mind-_ that'd go over brilliantly! He hung his head, yet nevertheless purposely put the pen down to the paper's edge. A slight spot of ink swelled to make a circle, but he ignored that. He had her gift wrapped and sitting on his kitchen counter: a pair of fingerless gloves. He hadn't wanted to buy her a book, especially as he was clueless as to where to start, but the gloves seemed like the right sort of idea. Hogwarts, in its extremeties, became quite cold in the winter, and as she spent so much of her time in the library- well, he just figured they'd be useful.

The percolator hissed, and his pale blue eyes lifted to finally give note to the hand of greeting dawn was now sending as it crawled up from its hidey hole in the night. First there was the indigo haze, like the soft peppery smoke that rises in the winter from the city's many chimneys. The pink underbelly of an anemone trailed behind, jagged whisps that sank heavy fingers through the indigo plumes. A gentle beginning, and then, George drew in his breath, violence.

It was a murder of the sky, and the crimson stain that spread and shot up like wild fire made him think of blood. It bubbled up and over, like lava over flowing, while at its epicenter, a single yellow orb, like a giant unblinking eye, rose and centered itself in the horizon. The death was cleaned and soon, only the eye remained with its curtain of blue.

The sound of a still hissing percolator tore George back to reality and away from the wounded the skyline. "It's like a ruddy revolution," he muttered as he poured the coffee and took an unwise gulp of the hot liquid.

It scorched his mouth, but it warmed his bare feet and uncoiled the usual relaxant over his shoulders. This was the best part: the sun rose and he drank his bit of morning revolution as well. He glanced back down at the paper, unblemished but for the ink spot, and promptly crumbled it up. This was too much worry over something as simple as a note. He was George Weasley, joke shop owner, not George Weasley, Mr. Manners of the afternoon post.

He'd finish his coffee, climb back down to his fifth floor apartment, and jot down a quick note, something along the lines of: _Happy Birthday- George._ It wasn't as if she was sitting around pining after him, depressed that he'd forgotten. Just as he wasn't overcome with guilt or anything like that.

"Don't feel guilty in the least," he repeated aloud, and tried to forcibly ignore the voice that piped up internally: _Weasleys always were bad liars...liar._

**III**

**THE REASON FOR **the gathering was in no way tied to meal time. Afternoon classes were cancelled and the students were requested to gather in the Great Hall. They clumped in groups of five that quickly scattered to sit at respective tables. Harry took his seat slowly, wondering at Hermione's absence from the Gryffindor table, and at this unusual meeting. He did not have to wonder long, for as soon as the last student wandered in, Hagrid closed the doors and Dumbledore stood up to address his flock.

"I have called you all here for a serious matter. A student has brought a charge against a professor." Dumbledore paused to allow the students to absorb his words. "Normally, such matters would be addressed and dealt with in the privacy of my office, however, the professor in question has requested a public forum, to decide the outcome of this complaint."

He stood back to allow the two figures who had previously been hidden by the High Table to step into view. Harry's stomach clenched when Baa Bawling marched up angrily, a stiff lipped Hermione next to him. Harry's head, like every other one in the room, turned back to listen as Dumbledore began to speak again.

"Miss Granger has called in to question the substance of Professor Bawling's teaching. She has raised the complaint by herself, and Professor Bawling is here to request a seconding of her claims should they indeed hold merit. He believes," and Dumbledore's voice faltered for a moment, before regaining its strength, "that Miss Granger is alone in this opinion."

He motioned for Bawling to step up to the podium, which the man did with an angry half leap. Bawling grabbed the edges of the podium with his small hands and turned a fierce glare over the room. "I have taught for nearly forty years, and never have I been so questioned. Miss Granger is used to knowing the answers, to knowing the material, to not facing a challenge in her classroom. Forgive me students, if I have indeed committed the great misdeed of showing Miss Granger her lack of knowledge."

He lifted a hand and pointed back to where Hermione stood, her face controllably blank from any inner thoughts. "I have tried to teach you the truth, and as stubbornly as Miss Granger may fight to learn it, the truth cannot be faulted for what it is. That I come down hard on inattention, that I am not as friendly as some of your other professors- these are not reasons to besmirch my character. What Miss Granger is trying to do is nothing short of fluffing up her ego. She does not like to be told that she is wrong, and as we now know, this is what comes to those of us who dare tell her so." He paused and began in a forced tone of affability. "However, should another student feel like Miss Granger, that they know better than I, then so be it. I'll pack up my things and leave tonight."

Bawling passed over another intense stare before stepping back down from the podium and taking his place back beside Hermione. Harry watched, his anger pitted heavily in his stomach, as the man dared smirk down at his friend. He recognized the tilt of Hermione's chin however when she took over at the podium. Her voice, when she spoke, was uncannily calm.

"Professor Bawling is right in some respects. It is true, I am used to not facing much of a challenge when it comes to Defense Against the Dark Arts. In the past six years, we've faced the full gambit of professors, and thankfully for most of them, never had to face the same one twice." She turned her gaze to the Gryffindor table, and Harry mentally qualmed as her steady eyes landed on him. She seemed to be asking him something, something he refused to acknowledge. "We all remember Dolores Umbridge and how she was. We all remember wishing that something would be done, that someone would speak up and stop her. And we were all grateful when at long last she left."

"But look at us now- we're no better! We have another Umbridge with us- only worse, because this one bothers to actually lecture. Professor Bawling is teaching that the horrors Voldemort-" everyone inhaled as one when she uttered the name, but Hermione continued unfettered, "-has committed are lies propogated by a conspiracy."

Her voice lowered as Dumbledore rose to retrieve her. "If no one speaks up, he'll continue, and this is far worse than anything Umbridge ever did."

Dumbledore grasped her elbow gently and pulled her away from the podium. He cleared his throat and adjusted his half moon spectacles. Harry couldn't remember when last Dumbledore had seemed so serious in this room. This room was reserved for words of welcome and farewell, for words of empowerment and hope, not for the serious lines of an aging wizard.

"So it stands, students. If no one else agrees with Miss Granger's complaint, I'll have to drop it. This is your chance to speak, so I leave you to it." With that, Dumbledore silenced and the entire room, nearly three hundred students in total, fell as equally quiet. Harry felt her eyes on him again, and he firmly quenched down that instinctual want to rise and join in her ranks if only to show solidarity. But equally instinctual was the want to remain hidden, to stay away from public ridicule.

"I agree."

The two words sounded like fireworks in the room, and just as volatile, for all that they were spoken with a dreamy, half awake intonation. The fifth year Ravenclaw nodded her head slowly and carefully stepped away from her shocked table. From where he sat, he could hear Hermione's incredulous "_Luna?_" and the sentiment seemed to be echoed across the Hall.

"Miss Lovegood, are you joining in Miss Granger's complaint?" Dumbledore asked.

Luna nodded again, picking her way ever so slowly to the front of the Hall. Speaking loudly enough for all to hear, she continued in her usual off balanced manner. "Professor Bawling only said yesterday that Snorkacks aren't real, but I saw a whole nest of them this summer in Norway. The _Quibbler_ posted a front page article on it, you know."

Hermione appeared both dumbfounded and joyful. She took Luna's hand once the girl reached the High Table and clasped it in gratitude. Bawling looked infuriated and his strangled protest vibrated up and down the large room. "Headmaster! Snorkacks? The Lovegood girl's half mad- her opinion can't be counted!"

Those were the wrong words to say apparently, because half the Ravenclaw table stood up and raised their hands to be added to the pool. Dumbledore's ever twinkling gaze seemed to gain a smug, self satisfied glint to them. "Any others?" he called out cheerfully from the podium.

Neville stood, as did Ron, and Harry felt his arm tugged up and over as he was forced to stand. His cheeks flushed red and he tried to ignore the disappointed look on Hermione's features as she witnessed his unwillingness. More Gryffindors stood up, and then a whole riot of Slytherins as well. The Hufflepuffs seemed to have decided en masse and the entire table launched upright with a great roar. It seemed, all at once, the students in Hogwarts realized a great truth- a truth far different from what Bawling tried to perpetuate.

They had a voice. They had a will. They had a power. And by Merlin, even Harry had to admit,it was amazing to realize.

The rest of the few students still sitting, climbed up and out of their seats, until at long last, every student in the room- Malfoy even! Harry's mind noted shockingly- stood in agreement with their fellow student, with the library bound and seemingly nonsocial Hermione Granger. It seemed too much for the poor girl, for she suddenly leaned over and crashed into Luna's shoulder. Luna smiled unbothered and calmly rubbed the crying girl's back in small circles.

Dumbledore gestured to the back doors. "Hagrid, if you will? I believe Professor Bawling needs to arrange his affects."

Bawling burst past him with a furious cry and stomped down through the millieu of students. He turned at the last minute and pointed a finger directly to where Hermione still stood, wiping relieved tears from her cheeks. He opened his mouth, but it seemed his anger was too much for he made another strangled cry and lept out of the room. Dumbledore lifted his hands for silence.

He removed his spectacles and did the unthinkable. He took off his ever permanent pointed hat, and bowed a deep bow to all in the room. When he rose again, it was with a blistering smile of pride. "Well done, my students. A hundred points to each house, and another hundred to Ravenclaw for Miss Lovegood's bravery. Mostly however, a hundred points to Miss Granger for showing the strength of character to speak when no one would and to fight when seemingly powerless. Well done, indeed."

A loud cheer followed up Dumbledore's words, and a great swarm of students rounded up to where Hermione stood, each calling out brief words of congratulations and wanting to shake her hand. She stood in the middle of it all, appearing shell shocked and overwhelmed. Harry watched as she hesitantly replied to the few students she knew and then laughed at something Luna said beside her. He watched, and then turned his head, the dreadful shame having finally hit him fully.

"Merlin, did you know about this?" Ron asked from his left, a look of awe stretched across his freckled features.

"Er...no," he lied and shoved his hands into his slacks' pockets.

"Wish she had told me," Ron commented in a wistful tone. "I'd have liked to help her out for once, even if was only by saying the obvious that Baa Bawling was a wooly wanker."

"Yeah, me, too," Harry muttered and slumped back down on his bench.

"I'm going to try to work my way in there," Ron called over his shoulder as he literally dove into the mob of students.

Harry stared down at the table top, tracing over the oak grooves with his eyes and trying ineffectively to ignore the burning shame that flushed his neck red. He could never apologize for this- the first person to speak up for her had been Luna! Luna Lovegood, and he, her supposed best friend, had to be dragged up from the table. Hermione had always been there to cover for him, to watch out for him, to save his bloody arse from death and worse. She supported him and helped him and dealt with his temper; and he was worrying about being embarrassed.

He couldn't ask forgiveness, mostly because he knew she'd eventually give it and because he knew he didn't deserve it.

An owl swooped in overhead, an odd occurrence since it wasn't the usual time for post delivery. The earthen colored bird circled once over the table before landing gracefully in front of him. A package was attached to the owl, and he undid the leather wrap carefully. The package was labeled: _Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Table, Hogwarts_. The writing was familiar, for all that he couldn't place it. The owl nipped his hand, and irritably he waved it off. There would be no avoiding Hermione now.

Wearily, he stood up and began his fight through the quash of bodies. The central hubbub was slowly being replacedby the usual groups of three or four that made up the student cliques, and Harry found himself in the apex with little effort. Ron stood next to her, his face split with a smile. Luna was smiling blankly, her pale blue eyes staring off into the distance despite the fact that it was she who was speaking. Neville kept tugging on her sleeve, wanting to add another word of admiration to the circle of complimentors, and she- she stopped laughing when she saw him.

Harry walked up to her and pushed the package into her hands. "A delivery for you," he tried to say in a light tone and failed when his voice cracked.

"Thank you," Hermione said, her eyes steady on him.

He shoved his hands back down into his pockets and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry!" he blurted, ignoring the audience around them. "You were right before, and there's no excuse, but I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm sorry."

She stared at him for a moment, her lips unsmiling, and the others turned to watch in silence. She continued to stare and Harry felt his neck burn with embarrassment. He turned to go when she suddenly launched herself at him and hugged him hard.

"You're positively idiotic, you know that Harry Potter?" she cried, her grasped package hitting him in the back of the head. "Let's just forget all this, alright?"

He hugged her back awkwardly, unable to fight off the grin. "Alright."

Ron stuck an arm in between them and scowled. "What's this about?"

Hermione made a wry smile. "Harry was being a jerk and finally decided to apologize. That's all, Ron."

"Is it really?" Ron questioned skeptically.

Harry nodded firmly. "I was being a capital pillock, Ron, almost in league with yourself."

"Hey!" Ron sputtered, and Luna popped up next to him, smiling mildly.

"Only almost, Ronald," she explained soothingly. Ron looked appeased for a moment until the full meaning clicked in his head.

Harry smiled back, relieved beyond words. He would be different now, he promised. He would make an effort to be as good a friend to Ron and Hermione as they were to him. He'd pay attention to Ron's tangents on History of Magic and even help Hermione with SPEW...should she mention it again. He would be just as strong for them as they were for him.

"Gloves..." Harry heard Hermione whisper, and he turned to see what she was speaking of. In her hands, she grasped a pair of garnet gloves, the fingers all ending at where the first knuckle began.

"Gloves!" she cried again, hugging them happily to her chest before trying them on. She twirled once, a girlish gesture that he had never seen her do and left him wishing she would more often. She grabbed his arm and shoved a newly gloved hand under his nose. "Aren't they brilliant?"

He nodded dumbly and wondered why a pair of gloves would make her so happy. She beamed at him, and then he wondered who had sent them.

_try it with lemon_

**SIX**

_by:s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

_**Additional A/N: **Do you see what I mean? Arg. I'm just dissatisfied currently with that section ending, so don't be surprised if it undergoes an edit. I'll be sure to post notice if and when I do. Cheers all._


	7. SEVEN

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing._

_**A/N:**__ There must be some kind of record out there for longest period between updates; if so, I may just win it. Let me just say that this story was never abandoned; it has followed me from computer to computer, bothered me with its lack of a finish, and lingered there in the back of my mind. I have written its ending chapters a good seven times over, and the last time I touched upon it was this past September. I've come back to it again, earlier this week, and feel that finally I can get around to giving DAM the ending it warranted. Four chapters remain after this one._

_To everyone who followed the original posting so faithfully, thank you. I hope to do your attention and support back then a bit of justice with DAM's eventual finish._

_For now, a completed chapter seven:_

_

* * *

  
_

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**SEVEN**

_wolliw gnipmohw/wounded_

**I**

"_**AIGEZ**_**," SHE WHISPERED**, and through her fingers sprang the most peculiar of sensations. Like having touched a cotton sprig, both soft and gnarled and _sticky_, in a clinging, cloying sort of way. Her fingertips buzzed with the aftershocks, even as a three foot tall wall of earth shot up in front of her, nearly as thick as it was high. The wall lasted long enough for her to stand again, before it fell with a great tremble at the base. The new mound of fresh soil spilt over the boldly traced rune she had drawn.

_Aigez_: the rune for defense and protection, a shield against harm.

Hermione had known of the rune's existence since her third year, and she couldn't help but wonder why such a wondrous ability such as the one she'd just seen demonstrated had never been mentioned in the three years since.

"Amazing...but what was that? Wandless magic?"

George's awed voice reminded her of her surroundings: a small clearing enclosed by the wood that cradled the Shrieking Shack's walls. She brushed her dirtied hands on the coarse material of her jeans, turning to face him as she explained.

"Technically, I suppose it is," she said. "There aren't any wands involved. But I'm still using a channel; instead of a wand, it's a rune."

He circled the crumpled wall, his blue eyes nearly hidden by hair that had grown too long. His face was easily hidden from her eyes, and she found it hard to gauge him as he was, with his eyes hidden. She couldn't trust his voice most of the time- she still couldn't tell if there was laughter in his words or sincerity, and sometimes, especially when they met in private, she felt the same self-conscious embarrassment creep up on her. She frowned, curling in her fingers to keep them warm, and wondered why George should still so discomfit her.

"I don't really understand why it's never mentioned," Hermione continued, pulling her coat around her tighter in an effort to keep out the cold. "Professor Flitwick routinely goes over alternatives to wand use, but he's never mentioned runes. It doesn't make sense that the whole wizarding world should have overlooked something a sixteen year old can find. I don't understand it..."

"That's because you're Muggle-born, Hermione."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she responded a bit too defensively, and George's hand raised immediately to placate her.

"It's just not very practical," he told her. "It took you easily five times as long to do your rune trans-whichever as it would to do a simple _protego_. Why bother with something that's not at all convenient?"

"Because it could be helpful," Hermione said frustratedly. "And because it's always better to know of alternatives." She paused momentarily to stoop and gather her notes. Then, as she straightened: "Most importantly, because a wand is easily removed. I can think of no better time than now to consider these wand-less alternatives."

"Yes...I suppose so," he answered slowly, and the speculative quality of his voice made her turn to face him.

He stood, hands pocketed and face pale, with his eyes trained on the peeling paneling of the Shrieking Shack. She walked up next to him and touched his arm tentatively. "George? Is something the matter?"

An abrupt movement of his shoulder sent her hand flailing off, and, more than a little hurt, she pulled the limb back to her side. Without taking his eyes from the dilapidated building, George asked in a quiet tone, "How many times have you three gone through things like the Department of Mysteries?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, taking a few steps back subconsciously.

He turned, hands still pocketed, and faced her. His features, normally good natured and friendly, seemed far too serious for what she knew of him. "How many times have you and Harry and my brother had your lives in danger?"

"You mean not counting potions class with Neville?" she said, but her attempt at diffusing the mood failed. Levity was never her strong point, and this particular occurrence did little to show otherwise.

"You know what I mean, Hermione," he said with an edge to his voice. "How many times have you all been in danger?"

She returned to the task of picking up her scattered notes- anything to get away from his scrutiny. Why should George want to know such a thing? And why now? She and Ron were the best friends to Harry Potter, the boy who lived to face more murder plots than any before. Naturally, they were bound to be pulled into the mess. Naturally.

"A handful of times, I suppose," she said, addressing the three notebooks in hand rather than the boy standing over her.

"A handful..." he echoed. "How many times- before this summer- had one of you been wounded?"

Her mind ran back over the memories: Ron received the worst of it first year, really, what with that blow delivered during the chess match; second year, she had been petrified, Ron hurt in that tunnel's collapse, and Harry poisoned by the basilisk; third year had- she shook her head. What did it matter, truly? Why should George concern himself with all this, now?

Her words were quick to echo her thoughts. "What does it matter, George? Yes, Ron and I have been through some tight spots with Harry, but we wouldn't have it any other way. We know the risks involved in being Harry's friend, but it's our decision to make."

George looked as if he had been struck. "What does it matter?" he cried incredulously. "What does it matter? Did you not pay attention this past summer? You nearly died, Hermione. And Ron- he spent his entire summer draped up in long sleeves to hide those horrible scars. He had nightmares, too- or did you not notice?"

The latter part came out angrily, and her own temper jumped in response, a large part of it fueled by the guilty realization that, indeed, she hadn't noticed. Not about Ron, at least. She had thought only of Harry all summer; not a moment was spent in considering her other friend's wounds, physical and otherwise.

"What business is it of yours then? For the five years we were in school together, you never showed any sign of this present concern. In fact, I seem to remember several occasions in which Ron went to you and Fred for help on something, and you sent him off jeeringly. Why now? Why bother _now_?"

She ran out of words to express her frustration with him – a first, to be sure. Her chest was strangely tight and her breath was coming in hurried pants. George's cheeks reddened darkly, his freckles disappearing into the heavy flush. He opened his mouth twice to respond, before finally stomping angrily toward the shack, his back ramrod straight and his shoulders hunched heavily forward. Hermione stared after him and allowed her temper to settle into a more coherent emotion. He was upset by something, obviously- something that hadn't been piqued until they spoke about wandless magic. She could not for the life of her understand the association, however.

How could a bit of talk about a possible defense upset him so?

Hermione threw the last of her scattered notebooks and notes into her satchel and hurried to follow after him. The damp path, run worn with recent traveling, ended at the start of a tired stair whose every step voiced the wood's groans and aching. The entirety of the Shrieking Shack was made up by variances of those sounds; Hermione much believed that should she ever go blind, the house would be no mystery as its cacophony was direction enough. The back hall- at least, what was left of it- led into a dimly lit foyer, placed oddly enough to the back of the house as opposed to the normal placement near the front. The entire house was built like this- awkwardly backwards. The parlor, traditionally situated to look over a garden and have regular sunlight, was a small, windowless room. The kitchen, conversely, flaunted extravagant windows whose few remaining shards of glass hinted that they had once been stained pictorials.

She had looked up the shack's architectural history, during a dry spell in her fourth year, and found little of reference in Hogwarts' library. It was built in 1867 by a squib witch who made her living designing manors for the more magically inclined of her society. After the woman died in 1915, the house was bought by a young married couple, who both promptly joined in the war effort and died. Since that time, the house had only been owned the once, and only for a total of seven hours before promptly rejected as unlivable.

A little over a hundred years after its creation, the villagers of Hogsmeade declared the worn down house as haunted.

She found George standing near one of the few unshattered windows in the house, his back to the doorway and his hand pressed against the film covered glass. His shoulders squared off stiffly, and the striped polo he wore hung awkwardly. His clothing marked his youth, yet his posture pressed of things more important than games and jokes. Hermione let her bag fall with a purposeful thud.

"George," she began, her voice no-nonsense. "If you tell me what's bothering you, I may be able to help. It does no good, you know, to side-step these things. If something is wrong, you might as well-"

"I spent my sixth year grousing," he interrupted, eyes still trained on the dirt trenched glass. "First about missing out on the Triwizard Tournament, and then about Bagman. That whole year, I thought about nothing other than how to blackmail Bagman into paying up and how unfair it was that Quidditch was canceled. Nothing else."

She remained by the door, wishing there was a clean spot to lean against. He shifted his feet, his stiff shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, and continued. "When Harry gave Fred and me those galleons, we only hesitated for a second. I don't think I spent more than a minute wondering about what went on when that portkey took Harry and Cedric away- all I could think about was that at long last, we had the kind of money we needed. It was practically blood money now that I really think about it- half of it Cedric's winnings. Half of it the reason why Cedric wanted to win. I wasted three hundred of it on a pair of dragonscale boots."

"George-" she started, but he whirled around from the window, and the words died in her throat. A desperate quality spun over his features, twisting them into such a foreign shape that she barely recognized him. "George..."

"I could have spent that time studying, like you- or training, like Harry. That money could have gone to something worthwhile- not two kids who make jokes for a living. What kind of help could I possibly be to the Order? Even Ron knows more about defensive spells than I do- Ron! Do you know what I thought when you sent me that note? I thought you'd been knitting something, or crocheting, whatever it is girls like to do." He made an angry gesture to the window. "Not come up with worst case scenarios!"

"But George, how could you have known?" She took a step nearer. "George-"

"Stop, Hermione." He brushed past her abruptly, his eyes avoiding hers. "The point is that it's time I grew up. There are better things I can do with my time than make a wand turn into a mouse."

"Oh!" Hermione threw up her hands, her hesitance lost. "You are completely ridiculous, George Weasley. Don't you dare put down your dream like that!"

George stared at her, plainly stunned by the vehemence in which she spoke. A finger landed in his chest, and she stared at him fiercely. "Do you think I want to spend all my time cooped up in a library?" At his incredulous look, she retracted her hand. "Okay, perhaps that's not the best way to make my point. Rather, do you think I want to spend all my time in the library researching defense? Maybe I'd like to read about the War with the Giants of 1693, or learn the origin of _Priori Incantatum_. Maybe," her voice grew soft. "Maybe there are things I would rather do than think of how easily my best friend could be killed."

She felt his hand come to rest on her shoulder, the calluses of his palm rough even through the thick wool of her sweater. She shrugged it off and stepped away, unconsciously mirroring his earlier action. "Not everything should be about Voldemort. There have to be some things that remind us of normal life, of what is waiting once this is all finished. Your shop's not just about jokes, George, it's about making people laugh. Surely giving people a reason to laugh is worth being proud of."

When he spoke next, his voice sounded strangely tight, and again, his hand fell to her shoulder. The slightest touch of pressure came from the rounding of his fingers over the smooth line of her shoulder blade, and when she lifted her eyes to search his face, his usual half grin was in place.

"Thanks," he said. His hand left her. "Time for my shift, though. See you soon."

The crack of his Apparation blended in so perfectly with the Shack's usual shrieking that she didn't realize he'd left until she turned and found only empty air to greet her.

**II**

**WHEN HARRY NEXT **woke, it was to the realization that something was very much amiss. Ron Weasley, best friend and roommate of going on six years, was not in his bed. In fact, Ron's bed was fully emptied and neatly made. It looked as if it had never been slept in at all. If not for the presence of Harry's three other roommates still asleep in their own beds, he might have thought he'd overslept. The wall clock took care of any other doubts: three forty-three.

He left his bed immediately, shaking any remaining sleep from his mind, and considered where his best friend might be. He didn't bother with changing, as he didn't plan on being seen. With his invisibility cloak firmly in place and Marauder's Map in hand, he padded down the stairs and past the other boys' rooms. The common room was empty, the fire having dimmed to a bare glimmer. It flared with Harry's entrance, and once he was through the Fat Lady's portrait, it returned to its ember watching.

The halls were equally as empty. The whole castle seemed to be asleep, much as it should be. The only two figures stirring were in the library, and only Ron's name moved beyond a slight pacing. The other barely moved. Harry hurried. It wasn't unusual that his two best friends should be meeting together, nor was it unusual for the two to have late night conversations. At least, in years past, it wouldn't have been unusual. Recently, their dynamics had changed.

It was as Ron had said it before: things had changed.

The library was dark, whatever light that came through the thick windows having been blocked by dusty drapes that lined the entire room. They were in the back, their hushed voices echoing in the emptiness of the library enough to guide Harry even without the map. He crept up behind them, safe in the camouflage of his cape, and listened.

". . .worried, too, Hermione," Ron was saying, his whisper having been given up for normal tones.

Hermione was in her slippers and nightgown, her hair braided, and eyes smudged with lack of sleep. "And I'm tired, Ron. Can't you interrogate me in the morning? I need to sleep."

"That's what I mean- you don't need to wear yourself out like this. I can help!"

Harry saw the roll of Hermione's eyes despite the gloom and Ron's flushed ears needed no lighting. "Not this time. Not yet. I don't know very much yet, and I'm still working out the rest. I already promised you, Ron, that I'd tell you when I know."

"You can tell me what you know now." Ron crossed his arms in what Harry knew as his stubborn pose.

Hermione sighed. "No, I can't. Like I've said seven times now: it's not my secret to share."

Ron exploded. "That's it, Hermione! Fine, you don't trust me. You like to have little plans and secrets, little methods to pop out and save the day on your own. Fine. I know that. But what can George possibly do to help you that I can't? He runs a joke shop! He doesn't care about Harry- he doesn't care about anything outside of who he can pull a stunt on next."

Harry's eyes widened. This was new to him. He'd known for a while now that Hermione had some sort of secret project she was working on, something that he knew had to do with him. He'd given up questioning her, and he refused to spy on her- unless it was absolutely necessary. But what could she be doing with George Weasley? Did they even talk to each other? He hadn't thought them to even be friends.

"This is what I mean, Ron. You're being so immature about this. You don't care about me, or what I'm working on. You're just jealous." Hermione's weariness was obviously taking a toll on her; she was normally more tactful than that.

"So what if I'm jealous. It's normal to be jealous when your best friend doesn't trust you and is doing things behind your back with your prat of a brother." Ron's voice sounded petulant, and Harry was tempted to stand up and show himself if only to save the argument from going further.

"It's not that I don't trust you, Ron! You know that. It's. . .how can I explain. . ." Hermione's hand fell against her eyes in a gesture so consciously weary, Harry felt his own interrupted sleep creep up on him. "I've made a promise. I can't think how else to say it: I made a promise, and that's that."

Ron stayed silent for a long while, his lips pressed so tightly shut it as if he was consciously trying to prevent himself from physically speaking. In Harry's own mind, he had many questions of his own forming, and not a small part of them angry ones. Why was it that everyone always felt the need to keep things that dealt with him entirely from him? If Hermione's secret had to do with Harry, then Harry felt he should be the first one to know about it. And if she said a single thing about protecting him. . .

"Fine," Ron breathed the word grudgingly, but it was sincere. "Harry can't know yet, and so, I can't know yet."

"Oh, Ron. . ." Hermione's hand was over her eyes again, and Harry wondered if this time it was a deliberate hiding of her face. "We can't both be keeping things from him."

"I know," Ron acknowledged, ears slightly pinked. "Hurry up, okay?"

"Okay."

And that seemed to be it. Ron left, somewhat stiffly, and Hermione soon followed behind. Harry stayed crouched where he was, undecided at the moment as to what he currently felt. Building up over all the time and space he'd been giving Hermione while she toiled on whatever her secret project was, was an anger- a fury. She- _they_- were doing it again, hiding things from him, keeping things from him, and only because they thought they knew better. It wasn't going to be them fighting Voldemort- it was going to be him! It wasn't them who had a promise of death marked on their foreheads if failure occurred- it was him!

It was nearly four in the morning, and Harry was tired- tired of being lied to and batted aside like an overly curious child. If he wasn't going to be told the truth, then he'd have to discover it for himself.

**III**

"**SHE HAS SOME **good ideas, George," Fred continued, pausing from his shelf checks. "She said that given some clever re-crafting of our charms, we could easily market to the Muggles."

George nodded and made a faint sound of acknowledgment, hoping Fred would eventually finish espousing the results from the afternoon consultation they'd had with a financial adviser from Gringotts'. He began his fourth attempt at counting down the money drawers from the day's earnings.

"We'd have to get it cleared with the Ministry, though. . . I don't like dealing with those blokes- they do have an air about them." Fred made a coughing sort of hiss that sounded very much like _Poncey Percy_. "I bet she would come with us."

George nodded again, and set aside the allotted amount normally left in the drawers during the business day. He missed the contemplative look his brother gave him, but Fred's next words gave the unseen expression full explanation.

"She seemed keen on you," Fred said with what George knew as his sly tone. "Pretty, smart, she'd go for our usual sort of dive at that. Knows her quidditch, too."

George did not respond, and turned his face resolutely so that his brother only received a shake of too long red hair and a line of tightly held lips. Fred persevered. "She left us one of those business cards, put her fellytone whatsit on the back."

George dropped a handful of galleons onto the counter's scale, the heavy coins _brilling_ cloyingly on the metal. "It's telephone, Fred. She left her telephone number on the back."

"Right. So you can call her- not tonight, that'd be too soon. But tomorrow would do, tell her we're thinking over her ideas, and then take her to Smorga's-" Another angry drop of coins cut off Fred's words.

"Why don't you call her, Fred, since you seem so _keen_ about her," George finally snapped, tired of having dealt with the ongoing prattle about the dressed up tart he'd unwillingly put up with for half the afternoon.

"I got a bird," Fred said pleasantly, not at all put off. "You don't."

"I don't want a bird, or a girl, or anything. I'm fine." To further emphasize the _fineness_ of his condition, George swept the two stones of knuts into the open safe placed in the floor behind the store's counters with an easy tug of his wand. The coins fell neatly into their allotted compartments and the safe swung closed behind them. Another tug of his wand sent the safe back into the safety of its various invisibility and _notice-me-not_ charms.

Fred followed him hurriedly from the store as George took off at an overly brisk pace. "Untwist your knickers there, mate, it's not like I suggested you suit up and marry her. She looks like a laugh, and how's that ever a bad thing?"

"I have more important things to do than chase around with that tart," George shot over his shoulder, not caring about the odd looks the few others still out in Diagon alley were tossing him.

"Oh right, I'd forgotten- your mission with Hermione _I'm-in-love-with-my-dusty-pages _Granger." Fred's sarcasm stopped George from his furious rush.

He flushed angrily, ears and cheeks unduly reddened. "Leave Hermione alone. She's helping-"

"Helping you rescue Sirius from a fate worse than death? Helping you become a hero? Helping you show the Order that you're more than a joke?" His mirror image stared back at him, except the shared blue eyes were narrowed in scorn.

George did not answer; Fred's words, however cruelly thrown at him, stung unfairly with truth. His plan, his idea, his _mission_ had seemed to bear such promise in the heady months of sun filled summer, but with each week that passed, each small bit of new information uncovered, George found his June hopes looking very much like a child's fairy tale. Hope-filled and ultimately, without any bearing in sensible reality.

Hermione had written him, only two days earlier; he received the letter at the shop. Her words were cramped and short. Distracted, he'd thought at the time. _It's only supposed to ever be purposely entered. You don't go in by accident. And you always know about the exit before entering. Otherwise, you stay there, in the whispers._ He knew about those whispers, the soft voices that sought out listening ears in the dreaming hours. He'd heard them, once, when very young. A car accident, the metal giant crushed and twisted into a light post, and hanging from the half shorn door was a pale arm. A little girl, and he heard her voice then, like a gentle nudge.

_How very nice. . .to not feel at all. _

"Face it, George, your idea was nutters in June, and it's only become more ridiculous. Why not give up and be an adult?" Fred's voice had lost its sarcasm, and now coaxed gently. "We have a good life, despite things. Some people are heroes and others simply live. It doesn't make you any less of a man to have not been death tested twelve times over."

_Despite things_. . .George shook his head and wrapped his starched robes more closely around him. "Maybe I'm not happy with settling down to that."

"What's so wrong with it?" Fred asked, his voice tempering into a quality their mother often took when soothing away skinned knees and bloodied noses.

"I. . .I don't know," George admitted. His shoulders tensed, a sudden, palpable exhaustion creasing out his usual stoop. "I only know that there's something in what I'm going after. Maybe Sirius can't be rescued. Maybe I'm not a hero- I don't care. But there's something there. I know it."

His fierce tone was mixed with half parts of desperation and sincerity. It was the truth. George mayn't pull out a much loved and missed Godfather from that ancient archway in the Department of Mysteries, but there was something there worth rescuing. There had to be. He would feel as such if not.

Fred left his reply unspoken, and instead clamped a guiding hand onto his twin's stiffened shoulder. He pushed the two of them through a familiar doorway. A wash of generously dispersed heating charms warmed them both immediately, and George seated himself tiredly across from his brother. He gave the menu only a passing glance. He wasn't hungry.

Fred decided differently, and gave out two identical orders to the hunched figure that loped up to their table. "Wotcher Tom. George and me'll have the dumplings and two Harpy's as well."

Tom nodded in his typical friendly manner, and George regarded the table top with tempered dislike. Fred began reading from another letter recently received.

"Ickle Ronnikins' spelling is improving. Your brainwave partner must've hexed him." George stayed silent despite the ribbing. Fred went on. "He says they have a new DADA professor- bloody hell!"

George glanced up; Fred's features were contorted in an expression of complete horror. "What? Dumbledore wouldn't let Umbridge back, would he?"

"It's worse, mate, much worse. It's. . ." Fred's mouth curdled as if saying the name was a foul poison. "_Snape_."

George shrugged, not particularly bothered by the announcement. "He's always wanted it, hasn't he? Figures Dumbledore would throw him something."

"It's _Snape_, though, George- Snape!" Fred's lips continued to twitch, despite having managed the name twice over. Again, George shrugged. He honestly didn't care. It didn't matter what subject Snape was teaching- he was still a professor there. "Before the worst he could do was poison them, now he can hex them as demonstrations!"

Tom returned with two bowls, steam piling high from the puffed dumplings within them. Two condensation coated bottles followed, the Harpies. He drank deeply first, relishing the smooth tang of the amber malt. The view beyond the window showed the street lamps beginning their nightly ritual of lighting, the blue hues coating the sidewalks in a haze. Absently, his eyes noted that the sky showed promise of snowfall.

"George?"

He would need to pack warmly then; the woods would be far colder than the slush that invaded the city during winter. "Yeah?"

"Eat your food like a good lad. You can brood later."

"Right." George took his twin's advice and realized, belatedly, that there had been no humor in the words.

_wolliw gnipmohw/wounded _

**SEVEN **


	8. EIGHT

_**Disclaimer: **__Same as always. I own nothing._

_**A/N: **__Three chapters remain after this; thank you again for all the support and encouragement. _

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**Difference Always Matters**  
_by: s. stewart  
a.k.a  
carpetfibers_

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**  
EIGHT**  
_the urge hums_

**I**

**SHE EDGED CLOSER** to the fire, attempting to relieve the knot of ice that had taken residence in her belly since early that morning. It was foolish, she realized after two hours of an arduous pace, to think that two teenagers were going to be the ones to crack the secrets behind the Veil, and yet, her sensibilities were being ignored. She didn't care that her idea was preposterous, and she didn't care that a good eighty percent of her intelligence had accepted that their endeavors were doomed to failure. She simply wanted to believe that there was something she could do to help.

Something that only Hermione Granger, seventeen year old bibliophile extraordinaire, could do.

"Oi."

With the help and partnership of one George Weasley, school drop-out and trickster, as well, of course. Someone had to be in charge of setting up the tent.

"I can't use my wand, George. I'm still restricted by those silly rules."

George grimaced in her direction, the still half collapsed tent threatening to fall at his feet. "My spells keep bouncing off the damned thing, it's _bloody _cold, and my stomach keeps yelling for attention. Hermione, please."

She straightened reluctantly from her crouch near the fire and fought against the shivers that crawled over her spine. The dusk skyline showed only colored clouds, the sunset having hidden behind them minutes earlier. The weather forecast at their departure promised rain, sleet, and possibly snow by the end of the week. For once, she didn't wish for a white Christmas.

"Sometimes there's a button or lever under a flap. . ." She pushed aside a piece of the heavy canvas, her fingers feeling about blindly, only to pause once a bulky rectangle was found. She pressed, and the tent leapt forward. "There we go."

She took a step inside and smiled, more than pleased with the interior. Two beds, all done up, a small table with chairs, a door to the rear which probably led to the WC, and a teeny dinette that, once the mini-fridge was opened, showed a full stock of choices. "I'll take care of dinner if you put up the wards," she offered, hoping to appease whatever male pride aspect might threaten early on.

George gave a mild grunt of assent, and Hermione turned to the task of cooking. She fell into the chore, surprised at the swell of contentedness that settled on her within seconds. It reminded her of that summer, which in turn provoked a slight glimmer of guilt in her breast. She hated that she was lying again, and lying to Harry the most. She had seen the suspicion in his green eyes when she claimed, at the last second, that she was spending Christmas abroad with her parents. She wanted to tell him- really, she did. But she couldn't bear to get his hopes up, to make him believe in something so remotely possible, only to have it result in failure.

She couldn't do that; but trek out in the middle of no-where on a half-cocked theory with a map built upon barely researched conjectures in the middle of winter- now that, she could do.

She added a second potato to the simmering pot, replaced the cover, and stretched. A slight peak outside of the tent showed that George was still making the circuit. The pot would need a good fifteen minutes or so, which was just the right amount of time to test out the water pressure in the shower. Raising her voice slightly, she called out, "George, it's going to be about fifteen minutes before the soup's ready. I'm going to take a shower, okay?"

There was a slight stiffening in his shoulders and then a shrug. His face was turned away, his blue eyes hidden. "Fine. Take your time."

Hermione pulled back into the increasingly warmer interior and frowned. While he didn't sound annoyed, there was something _off _in George's response. But there had been something _off _about George quite often of late. It had started in their correspondence at first, his letters becoming less familiar and more stilted. And then, during their brief encounter before the start of the holiday, he had been just short of a stranger with his clipped words and overly polite manners.

She wished she knew more of him, had been friendly with him before all of this had started- then, at least, she might make a presumption or two and demand an explanation. She wished- that is. . . She sighed and pulled off her coat, leaving it to air out by the tent entrance. The water in the shower proved an excellent pressure for removing knots and the temperature was warm enough to melt down the cold in her bones within minutes. She leaned her head against the shower wall and closed her eyes.

There was nothing for it; she would just ask him.

Which she did, a half hour later as she watched him dive into his second serving. Nervously, she played with the napkin in her lap, its edges easily frayed. "George," she began. Instantly, his blue eyes rose to hers. She reminded herself not to blink. "Is there something wrong?"

He dropped his bowl abruptly and looked away. "Why? Does it seem like something's wrong?"

"Not particularly," she said slowly, her words careful. "I just feel that something's bothering you."

"Something?"

Hermione glanced down to her lap, catching her fingers in the act of ruining the poor cloth. "Something . . . or, maybe, it's me. Did I do something?"

There seemed to stretch an unnecessary amount of time for a simple yes or no question. A sudden lack of courage prevented her from lifting her eyes; she could feel his gaze on her face, felt the answer before he replied in full, and felt, for whatever reason, suddenly wretched.

She spoke before he did. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." She stood up from the table, grabbed their emptied dishes, and carried them to the sink. She began washing despite knowing it wasn't necessary. A simple charm from George, and the chore would be finished. Purposely, she moved her shoulder so that he was hidden behind her. "We need to go over the map; I didn't think the trail would be quite so difficult to find."

"Hermione." He had crept up behind her, and nervously, she forced herself to ignore that too.

"I know it's a slim possibility, our finding another archway, but the story seemed a little too purposeful with its descriptions. I still think there's a chance; but what we're going to do if we find it, I really don't know. I guess we'll just have-"

"Hermione, stop it."

Even when he grabbed her shoulders and forced her to turn around, she refused to match his gaze. She knew she shouldn't have pressed it. She didn't know the reason behind his recent moodiness, but there was an irrationality in it that frightened her. Irrationality begot further irrationality, and when such a thing was coupled with a nature like hers- she couldn't help but feel frightened.

"I said to just forget it," she repeated. "Really- you should just ignore me. It's because we're out here, and I don't exactly have a proper plan, so I'm feeling a _tiny _bit insecure, which makes me overly sensitive to perceived- But George!"

She lifted her chin, feeling ridiculously juvenile and far more insecure than her used adverb. "But, are we friends? I mean, _friends_? Because I can tell there's something bothering you, and since that time in the shack, things have been off between us. I just-"

But how to explain it? That she hated not understanding? That she hated not being trusted enough to be given a chance to understand? Or that she felt, somehow, different since they had started this . . . this _thing_ of theirs. Hermione fixed things, solved things. She knew her place in the dynamics of her world; she was sidekick material, the background worker, the basement scientist who designed the gadgets and doohickeys that helped the hero save the day. She knew she wasn't center stage material. But then George, he gave her something that, perhaps, only _she _could do. And suddenly she had aspirations and fears.

Her head bowed, her half dried hair falling forward over her shoulders. "I don't know who I am in relation to you, and so I'm not sure what to do, what to say," she admitted, her voice tempered by realization.

"Hermione," he said again, and she felt the sudden pressure of his hand on her shoulder, trapped somewhere between her hair and sweater.

She stepped back from the sink and his touch with a sharp turn of her waist. "_Oh_ . . . just forget it. Really truly, I hardly know what's wrong with me. So, just, please, ignore-"

"George!" She cried, suddenly, because he had her pressed against his chest now, the crown of her head narrowly fitting beneath his jaw. Her arms hung awkwardly at her side, and she felt his hands link at the base of her spine. She could hear the dulled, patterned beat of his heart, and wonderingly, she angled her eyes upward. "George?"

"We're friends," he said quietly, the echo of his voice stretching down into his chest and against her cheek. "For certain, we're friends."

He released her as abruptly as he had embraced her, and Hermione stepped back, feeling her cheeks flush unwillingly. When she lifted her eyes to search his face, there was only that typical lazy grin of his. He patted her on the head, like a parent would to a precocious child. "Thanks for dinner."

She blinked at him, a small part of her mind questioning the source of the warmth that filled her. "You're welcome."

He nodded, still grinning. "Now, about that map. This is a magic wood, after all. I'm guessing it's going to want to disguise itself from people such as ourselves."

Hermione stared a minute longer and then collected her thoughts, the map, and a blanket. She was thankful for the distraction; anything to keep her mind off of the continued blush on her cheeks and warmth in her breast.

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**II**

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**THE MOOD AT** the dinner table sat heavily, and Harry shifted uncomfortably for the third time since the meal's start. Ginny seemed perturbed, probably at him and probably due to the same reasons she had avoided him for the past three months. Ron barely picked at his meal, a sure sign that he was pining over a girl, most likely Hermione and most likely because she had failed to pick up on Ron's over obvious overtures before break. Even Fred seemed unhappy, his steak more eviscerated than eaten, and Harry had his bets hedged on the reason being George's absence. The sour atmosphere did little for his own thoughts, which refused to listen to reason. He told himself to not think so, to not question his allies' motivations, and yet-

Yet, he hated being protected, and if he couldn't count on those supposedly closest to him to treat him rightly, then who could he count on?

Hermione had her secrets in the library, and her sudden and convenient desire to bond with her family for the winter break only further compounded his suspicions. Dumbledore had ignored him for most of the first term, much as he had during Harry's fifth year. There had been no terse meetings in the offices, no promised confectionery enticements to sweeten a bitter revelation; there had only been a separation, and further emphasis of _them _and _him_, and without Hermione to balance his paranoia, there was only Ron to listen. And Ron-

Ron still wore his long sleeves with cuffs that hung past his wrists. Harry couldn't- _wouldn't_- unburden himself at the expense of his friend.

Perhaps, at an earlier time, Harry might have considered turning to the fourth corner of his associations, but Ginny was too volatile, too raw for him to handle anymore. Since their confrontation in Grimmauld Place, she barely spoke to him, but for passing, superficial comments regarding Quidditch maneuvers and meal time opinions. He missed her, in a strange and distant sort of way; he missed her without having a specific cause or reason for it, and in present company, with her laughter at his elbow and her hair a warm glow at his shoulder, he felt the loss all the more so.

"_Harry_- earth to Harry Potter!"

Said female's exclamation returned Harry to himself, and he blinked owlishly as the words caught up to him. "Remus is here?"

Ginny sighed, exasperated. "Yes. For the fifth time, he's in the back. Wants to chat."

Curious by the unexpected visit- Remus was not due back from whatever mission Dumbledore had sent him until Christmas; it was yet another secret being kept from him, and while that realization sent Harry's blood to boil, it was a quiet furor, more tired than wrathful- Harry pushed back from the table and followed the cluttered hall through to the kitchen. The moonlight, an etched gibbous of illumination, cast a dulled glow over the back garden. The ground, burdened by a month of frost and cold rain, provided a stark contrast, and Harry shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, ignoring the shiver that trembled through his shoulders.

"Remus?" he called.

"Harry- good, you came." Lupin stepped out from the shadow of the house, fresh wounds scouring his stubble lined cheeks and clothes in tatters. Harry inhaled sharply, but a hand prevented his questions. "I'm fine," Lupin assured. "It looks worse than it is."

He gestured toward the moon and smiled tiredly. Harry nodded doubtfully. "Come inside then, at least. There're leftovers from dinner, and we can get you some new clothes-"

"Harry, I need you to come with me for a bit."

The words were innocent ones, the sort that led to friendly conversations or discussions of the evening news. Harry felt his heartbeat quicken all the same; the intonation was not lost on him. Remus appearing in his haggard state, clothes torn and wounds untreated- surely his request meant something of a different nature. Unbidden, his thoughts to went to the only person of consequence in his life unaccounted for. "Oh _gods_, Remus- not Hermione. Not her-"

"No, Harry- _Harry_, stop. Put your wand away."

Belatedly, Harry realized that he had withdrawn his wand, the tip sending of small sparks of blue in his agitation. "I'm sorry," he said, extinguishing the sparks with his left hand, and trained his eyes on the stretch of holly. He both hated and loved the wand; it was a part of him, part of his magic, but still yet another connection to the man- _creature, thing, monster_- that had ruined his life and so many others'. "Something is wrong, though, isn't? You showing up here, unplanned- it means something's wrong."

Lupin's sigh echoed of age and weariness far past recent years. "It's your grandparents. I found them." The exhausted wizard waste no time with further explanation and instead placed a dry and chapped hand on Harry's shoulder. "Clear your mind; I'll take you there."

Harry felt none of the normal pressure or fright that he'd experienced previously when Disapparating. The Weasleys' patch of frosted earth was replaced with moor land, a barren desert of knee high grasses and balding patches of heather. There were no trees, no houses- nothing that spoke of civilization or human existence. It was as isolated a place as Harry had ever been, and shivering, he turned to Lupin. "Where are we?"

"Scotland. There's a small village, five or six kilometers south, and your grandparents lived there, in secret-keeping. They were put into hiding shortly after James joined the Order. They died a year later."

The knowledge, like so many other shared truths, landed dully. Harry hadn't allowed himself to hope, not really, that he had relatives still living beyond those of his mother's. He hadn't re-visited that book, the one holding their portrait, since the summer. He avoided that corner of the library, steering clear of its fourth shelf and never nearing the seventh book over, the one with the blue binding and silver etching. He refused to replay the unfamiliar expressions caught in the portrait's half-life; he refused to compare his grandfather's nose to his own, or ask after stories from his father's childhood. It had been self-preservation, his aggressive act of not hoping. It had been an earnest effort to protect himself.

And yet-

The knowledge stung bitterly.

"How?" he asked, his voice sounding dull and hollow.

"Naturally and in their sleep. Your grandmother first, and then four days later, your grandfather. The villagers buried them out here."

"Where?"

Lupin gestured to the ground near Harry's feet, and jerkily, Harry lowered to his knees, pushing aside the cold grass and ignoring the heather that clung to his clothes. The markers were a plain and simple affair, without decoration or adornment. They bore only the names, still alien to his memory. He traced the etched letters before standing abruptly. "I don't want to be buried- I don't want a stone or a marker or anything. When I go, I don't want people to stand over some _thing_ with my name on it-"

"Harry, I know this is hard-"

But Harry didn't want to hear Lupin's words; he didn't want to have to listen to reason and cave in to sensibility. "I want to go back now, please."

He ignored the way Lupin nodded, sympathy and wretchedness apparent in the brief gesture. He closed his eyes, willing away the heather and pale grass, vanishing the two stones that marked lives ever absent from his present. When they returned the Weasley house, Harry broke hurriedly from Lupin's grasp. "I'm fine," he said, halting the inevitable enquiry. "I just want to be alone for a while."

Lupin hesitated briefly and then nodded. "All right. But don't-"

"I'll stay close. I know."

Harry waited until the wizard had entered the house before jogging toward the storage shed in search of the one thing that might give him relief from the painful ache in his chest. The wood was rough and promised splinters, but it was solid, and once he climbed atop it, the broom flew straight. He rode as high as the wards would allow him, and then plunged earthwards, relishing the warm thrill that soaked through him as he pulled sharply from the fall. The fear and exhilaration that came from flying was something he could control, he could manage. It was finite and measurable, and made up of none of the grays that the rest of his life was coated in.

There was only the aged broom beneath him, and further below that, an-

The bludger swung past him, barely missing his nose. Harry hitched forward as it arched back and watched as a flurry of red and blue jumped to catch it. "Ginny?"

"You should pay better attention. I nearly knocked you off your broom." Ginny held the bludger tightly against her stomach, and in the dim moonlight, he could make out her smile. Harry didn't return it.

"I don't really feel like playing, Ginny." Making slow circles, he drew himself back to the ground, the moment of freedom caught in flying spoiled by the interruption. "I'm tired anyway."

He began to head back to the shed when she stopped him, her voice controlled and precise. "Lupin told me about your grandparents."

"He shouldn't have done that," Harry said flatly, refusing to meet her gaze. "It's none of your business."

"Oh right, I forgot," Ginny retorted sarcastically. "I'm too _immature_ and _emotional_ to possibly understand."

Harry dropped the broom with unnecessary force and turned scowling. He ought to walk away and ignore her words, he knew, but a part of him welcomed the easy feeling of anger. It felt so much better than that hateful misery boring in his stomach. "Your words, not mine."

"You wouldn't do this with Hermione," she accused, her voice tempered with sharpened hurt.

"You're right, I wouldn't," he shot back, fully immersing himself in the heady rush of provocation. "Hermione knows me well enough to know when I want to be left alone and when I need someone-"

"She's not here, though, is she? She's off with George, doing who knows what- Oh," Ginny's eyes widened with realization. "You didn't know, did you? She didn't tell you. Harry-"

Harry felt his fervor weaken, the smarting anguish from earlier greedily replacing it, and stumbled backwards, tripping over the broom. A dull throb settled in his hands as he landed heavily on the ground, and distantly, he felt his eyes water. Feverishly, he wiped at them, hating the weakness. Hermione had lied; he had guessed as much, but guessing and knowing were two different things- and _she ought to be with him_. He needed her here and now, reassuring him that what he felt was honest and safe. He needed her to tell him that it was okay to grieve for people he had never met, never known, never really loved. He needed her, and instead, she off somewhere with George Weasley-

And he hated crying.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm sorry!" Ginny's embrace was warmth and softness. Her arms, tucked beneath his own, cradled him gently, and Harry realized, behind the contact, what it was he had so missed these past months; he had missed Ginny's attention and adoration. He had missed being so blindly loved by her; he had missed having that assurance in life, that ever present comfort.

"Harry? I don't know why I said that- I didn't mean to say that. I just wanted to check on you, make sure you were all right- but all we ever do is fight, and I'm just so sorry. Please, please don't cry." She wiped his cheeks with her hands, her expression stained with worry and concern. "Please, I'm sor-"

It was selfish, Harry knew. It was weak and an escape, and he told himself that these facts were all negotiable, because he needed something of permanence, something he could turn to when the secrets and lies became too much. When the hurt became too much- when life and his unavoidable future became_ too much_- he would need this one thing.

He kissed her, and when she returned it, her hands tightening behind his back and her lips trembling beneath his, he told himself that it was only fair.

It was only fair.

* * *

**III**

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**

**BY MID-MORNING THE** snow had stopped. The weightless charms he'd placed on their snow shoes needed re-applying at least once an hour, and despite Hermione's reassurances that this was normal for the spell, George was certain it was yet another example of his overall ineptitude. The past nine months had been nothing short of a wild goose chase, built upon his half-theories and wishful thinking. He still couldn't understand how someone as sensible as Hermione was still following along; regardless, they were together, on Christmas Eve, trekking through a magic wood, half frozen despite warming charms, in search of a supposed portal that would lead them into the world behind the Veil.

Hermione had thought of it first. _"Every entrance must have an exit, right?"_

Hermione had also been the one to find the right references, moldy texts written by hand and smudged by years of preservation charms and oxidation. She had been the one to fall short on her exams due to late nights spent researching in the library, a definite first in her scholastic history. It was she who put together the idea of trying to find one of the portals themselves, and it was once again Hermione who made a map to find it. George's project had become hers at some point, and he still didn't know whether his general feeling of uselessness was due to her overwhelming capability, or his childish possessiveness. Even if he had lost faith in his original idea, it had been _his_, hadn't it?

He was the one who discovered Sirius's name on the listing; he had been the one to think of using the Book of Records. If it hadn't been for him then-

"George, I'm sorry. I'm stuck again." Hermione's voice sounded pitifully miserable.

Dutifully, George obliged with the request, pointing his wand at her feet and then his own for good measure. "_Gravitas perdio_."

"Thanks again." He nodded as needed and trudged forward, fiercely ignoring the tug that tore through his stomach at the sight of her red cheeks and unbound hair. She so rarely wore it loose anymore; he remembered her vaguely as a first year, a small hurried blur of frizzy hair and school robes. That same image seemed to apply for her later years, until her fourth- his sixth. It seemed incongruous even now, the seeming transformation that a few cosmetic charms and the right sort of robes had given her then, but he had been part of the male majority who paused that night when she walked by. He had thought her pretty then, before recognition set in. And then he had written the thought off.

He could see it now, though: her artless attractiveness. It bothered at him, picking and poking and reminding him to_ pay attention_, to _notice_- and after a near week spent in her constant presence, he felt fully raw. The edge was further exacerbated by her ignorance; she seemed completely unaffected by him. She fell asleep at night quickly and without effort. She emerged from her showers, shoulders damp and wet hair trailing down her back, and, in a perfectly normal tone of voice, asked him to cast the drying charm for her. She didn't seem to care that it involved him standing behind her, or touching her neck; she didn't seem to notice him at all- not in a way that she ought to.

He was a man, for Merlin's sake; shouldn't she consider that at all?

"I was thinking." She paused, as if asking his approval to continue. George clapped his hands together, rubbing them for warmth, and grunted his assent.

"Maybe it's another dimension- the place behind the Veil, that is. My handle on physics is rather lacking, but we have four dimensions, right?" George nodded, pretending to understand. "But how does magic fit in there? Is it something we can rightly measure? It's a bit fluffy, science-wise, and well, thinking about dimensions made me wonder if perhaps our magic is from another dimension. There are theories that say we have more than four- that we have as many as 23 even, so perhaps one of those dimensions is our magic."

"And so you think that behind the Veil is another dimension?" The skepticism he tried to hide sneaked out all the same.

"It was just a thought," she retorted shortly. George watched, discouraged, as she crossed her arms and increased her pace. Her every step was a personification of defensiveness.

"Don't pout," he tried to tease, hoping the familiar tactic would work. "Try to remember who you're talking to; I'm hardly a world authority on your fixits-whatsits."

His words, for once, had an affect. A gloved finger, coated in chips of iced over snow, poked into his chest. "Why do you keep doing that?"

Annoyed by the tremor of warmth that built where she touched him- even through the many layers of clothes separating her finger from his chest- George scowled. "Doing what?"

"_That_- when you purposely put yourself down. I don't understand at all why you keep trying to act like you're stupid. It's silly and annoying." Her every word reminded him of his mother, and his stewing displeasure deepened.

"I'm not acting, Granger-"

"Oh!" She threw up her hands. "There you go again with this 'Granger' business! I thought we were past all of that. I thought after the other night-" Her voice caught briefly, and curious, George allowed himself to look at her directly. "I thought after the other night we were through with being uncomfortable with each other."

He felt the irony of her words distinctly. It was laughable; he was all too aware that _Hermione Granger_ was a girl, through and through; she smelled like one and laughed like one, and even, though he still refused to think about it, felt like one. She was soft and warm, and the very last thing he felt when around her was comfortable. "We are friends," he reassured, finding the word distasteful. "But you need to stop acting like I'm an under-achiever or not living up to my full potential. It sounds like Mum, and honestly, it's grating."

It appeared he had said exactly the wrong thing. "Sorry to _grate_ then," Hermione bit out.

"Oh come on, Hermione. Don't be like that- I just mean that it gets old being told what I should and shouldn't be all the time." Frustrated, George sighed, bridging his temple between his hands. "Can't you just like me for me and leave it at that?"

He couldn't see her expression, hidden as he was beneath his winter coat and arms, but he felt her near. He felt as she lowered one of his arms and took his hand between her own. He kept his gaze askance as she spoke, her grasp warm on his own. "I do like you for you, George. I don't want you to change. I just- you ought to think better of yourself."

Her earnestness tore at him, and hastily, George withdrew his hand. "Right. What's the map show?"

Hermione blinked at the non sequitur before pulling the folded piece of parchment from her pocket. He allowed himself to watch as she studied it, her hair scattering shadows over the pale paper. The fact she was a female wasn't the sole reason for his present discomfort. It was her seriousness, that intensity that she gave to everything. The power of having her sole attention, of knowing that she was focused on him exclusively was overwhelming and intoxicating. It made him greedy and jealous, and he disliked the misleading qualities of such feelings. He knew all too well that once their project was finished, whether it was to probable failure or unlikely success, she would return back to her rightful place. She would return to Harry and to Ron; and George- he would disappear into a blankness known as memory and _remember when_.

What he wanted, though, before that time, was one chance. One small opportunity to play the leading man in a story where he was but a minor part. Sure, his idea, concocted so many months earlier, had its glaring flaws. And yes, he pursued it still for reasons not entirely selfless or altruistic. What he wanted, though, was to have a single moment of vainglorious achievement, so Hermione could look at him and see not a joke shop owner living beneath his potential, but a man who was-

"George _look_."

George's pale blue eyes followed the line of Hermione's arm, down the final patch of snow-covered path and to the towering monstrosity of a tree so crippled with age and so laden with growth that he thought it animal first and plant second. Burrowed in the tree's center, glistening and rippling, stretched a hazy gauze of fog and ice. The expanse resembled a mirror more so than anything else, and yet, it was warped, the light refracted showing none of the typical array of rainbow and color. The ice reflected nothing, displaying only an expansive emptiness; he inhaled sharply as the first of the whispers reached him.

"This has to be it, George, it has to be. We found it!"

He heard Hermione as if from a distance, her words sounding hollowed and reedy his ears. There were other, closer, voices in the tree, voices that promised him greatness and importance. Muted languages with meanings both untranslatable and undeniable pulled at him, tugging his feet closer to the mirror-like trunk. He felt Hermione's hands on him as well, her sharp tugs and insistent calls. Why couldn't she understand that this was what he wanted? They had found it, the entrance to that other world: the world behind the Veil, and soon, very soon, George would have his one chance.

"George, please, _please_ stop! You can't go in there, not yet- we don't know what will happen!"

He paused at her pleas and spoke as his lips, chapped and ruined by days in the cold, stretched into a smile. "It'll be just fine. Trust me."

He smiled still as he stepped into and through the icy opening. He heard nothing of the frightened scream that followed behind him. It was, he decided as the blackness loomed into a brilliant white, the easiest thing in the world to embrace nothingness.

* * *

_the urge hums_  
**EIGHT**

_by: s. stewart  
a.k.a  
carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

18May09


	9. NINE

_**A/N: **__All right; this chapter is actually going to be split into two now. It just grew beyond what I originally outlined and needed some separation. Mega-super-huge thanks and bows and whistles to the support: you're fantastic reviewers/alerters/pm-ers._

_**Disclaimer: **__All belongs to JKR._

_

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_

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_aka_

_carpetfibers_

_

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_

**NINE**

_tragedy finds even the happy_

**I**

**"DON'T TOUCH THE** stove, sweetie," her mother would admonish. "It's hot; you'll hurt yourself."

Hermione obeyed the instructions because they were words said by her mother, and she loved her mother. She didn't need to learn the lesson the hard way; she didn't need to suffer a burned finger or scalded hand in order to understand. She listened and obeyed, and her mother always praised her with a smile and a touch on the cheek.

Her father never babied her, never spoke down to her. Even when she was very young, an age that her memories only granted abstract glimpses and snapshot pieces of, he spoke to her like an adult. He read from his ponderous tomes, in a voice precise in diction and pronunciation, and she would sit at his feet, her hands entangled with a stuffed toy.

She learned to read from her father's voice, learned to say words far too long for her inexperienced tongue and unpractised mouth. She broke into her primary levels, two years ahead, and friends were difficult to have. No one likes to feel stupid, and every time she spoke, the distance between herself and others grew.

She learned to enjoy being alone from her mother, learned that solitude granted things like quiet and peace. She found a simple contentedness in the company of herself, and a constant consolation in the reliability of her own mind. But children always suspect the quiet ones, the seemingly independent, and with time, her world grew all the more narrow.

Her parents taught her independence of mind and self and soul, and yet, she always craved the need of others. She wanted to be wanted, needed to be needed, and her awkward attempts at procuring these desires resulted in further alienation. Her words and declarations came across as bossiness and arrogance, and whatever overtures of friendliness she attempted were met with rejection.

When the letter came, the one explaining the strange incidents of her infancy, and she learned of her magic, she spent the night in her bed weeping. She cried with her pillow pushed to her mouth, and her hands fisted in her sheets. She sobbed great, racking cries of relief and gratitude, because she had always hoped to be given a chance to get away from what she was- to escape the early lessons of her childhood, and for once, be someone like everyone else. And when she crossed into the hidden platform for the first time and saw the many other children whose parents stood by, with trunks and pets and a cacophony of sight and sound that sent her reeling- when she saw all this, she tucked back her hair, wiped her eyes, and opened her mouth to try her first greeting.

But when she spoke, she spoke as she only knew how, and once again, despite everything she hoped for, she was alone.

_"George," Hermione whispered, her voice slack with wonder and fear. "What is this place? What is this?"_

George was four when he learned that not everyone had an identical twin sharing their room, toys, and meals. He ought to have understood it earlier, with a family as large as his, but somehow, he thought them exceptions and felt badly for them. How sad that they shouldn't have a twin like everyone else- how very sad for them, he would think whenever he saw his own face, worn by another, grin back at him. When he learned that he and Fred were the abnormalities- that they were the exceptions to the rule, he'd hated it.

He was seven when he began getting into scrapes. His face was forever marked by cuts and bruises, a bandage on his hand or knee- and when his mother would try to heal the injuries away, he would hide in the garden or disappear into the attic. He liked the differences, the changes the marks gave him. No one ever confused his name with his twin's, no one ever mistook him for someone else, and he gloried in the distinction.

Eventually, though, rivalry and competition caused similar wounds on his twin, and the mistakes returned. The rubs became all the more frequent, and by age ten, he grew tired. He stopped trying so hard, and he found, after a while, it wasn't too terrible to share everything. He made a game of it, immersed himself in it, and by his second year in school, he convinced himself that he liked it. He liked being a twin, and being the same all the time with just one person was something he could live with.

In everything, he was never alone, and few, he realized, could claim the same.

_It was the forest, still, but without its snow and ice. The ground beneath his feet gave to his weight, and dimly he recognized the softness for grass and moss. George felt blindly for the body behind him and grasped her hand tightly in his. He felt nothing of her earlier warmth, and shuddering, he tried to close his eyes. The forest was imbued in the past, and he wanted none of that. "We have to leave."_

She had always known that actions spoke louder than words, and she hoped by lying about the troll that something might have changed their minds about her. And for a while, they spoke more kindly. She wasn't ignored during meal times or in class, and sometimes, she was invited to common room gatherings. They were small things, and she grew greedy for more. When she learned of Harry's poisoning at the end of their first year, after the sudden departure of their DADA professor, she had joined the rest of her house in huddling outside of the infirmary.

But when he recovered, it wasn't to her that he smiled, and it wasn't on her shoulder that he leaned his head or whispered thanks to. She was a single face in a crowd of many, and she hated that careless anonymity desperately. She felt it again in her second year, and despite her efforts to help, she was left with nothing. Her classmates, barely more than acquaintances, fell further into fear, and even when she thought of the mirror, it came too late. The Chamber was discovered, and once again she was a face in a crowd outside of the infirmary.

_It was the past, and it wasn't. The trees swung in bowed movements, the memories caught in them. Hermione felt the wrongness of them, the warped stretches of the visions mired with a deep falseness that made her grip contract with a cold fear. "This is wrong- this didn't happen."_

George should have noticed it earlier, when they began to disagree on things normally never bothered with. There were the silences, the drawn out minutes in the dorm room and during class. No teasing banter or future plotting; no anecdotes from days prior or plans for the week-end. Class assignments were volunteered with separate partners, and post-game celebrations were held with other, different friends. He reassured himself that this was fine- hadn't he longed for a separation when he was younger? Hadn't he hoped and tried and fought to have himself seen as someone different from his twin?

In his fifth year, his position on the Quidditch team was taken by a third year with a mean swing, and he spent his school year sitting in the audience, his stomach knotted and churning, watching as his twin, his double and mirror, dove and lunged, swung and missed, across the pitch. Jealousy, envy, and all other emotions twisted and ugly filled his heart, and for the first time in his life, he hated his own image.

_"Hermione, don't cry," George implored, unable to see her tears. He heard her heaving breath from beside him and felt the tiny jerks of her fingers in his palm. He was calm, a bastion of confidence. These things had never happened, he was certain, even if everything in him insisted they did. He had never hated Fred, never wished bad things for him. These trees were haunted with fiction and lies, and he would not let it infect him. "Don't cry, it's not real."_

Hermione had loved the color the moment her eyes found the fabric tucked back behind the center hangar of dress robes. Lace and etchings and tiny patterns of petals near the hem- it was a dress meant for a new beginning, a new opportunity, and she wanted to wear it when she attended the ball that night. She wanted people to pause and glance back at her, and wonder: Who was she? Who was this? Surely not Hermione Granger, the swotty bookworm who never knows when to close her mouth- surely not her!

But it _was _her that night, her hand supported by the youngest professional seeker in the leagues. The whispers were about her shoes and hair, and she heard the soft words, the snippets of compliments and wistful envy, and she smiled then, happy and bursting and not caring that the reasons were superficial and temporary. Mostly, though, she had sought out the gazes of her two house mates and felt victory at the appreciation there.

Perhaps now, now they would want something more than casual comments and passing conversation- perhaps now, she could have a role to play in their secretive world of hidden agenda and mystery.

But the end of the year came, Viktor won the tournament, and when he told her, after the celebration, "You haff a brave friend," she could only shake her head, the truth pushing tears to her eyes. Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, had never been a friend of hers.

_Hermione knew the memories were lies, terrible, terrible lies created by this strange world in the trees. She knew this fact for truth, much as she knew that her eyes were brown and her blood warm. But the lies were truth, too, in this wretched place of refracted images and blinded vision, and that truth tore through her violently. Her cheeks stung with dampness, her lips salty with the taste of her tears. She tried to focus on the feel of George's fingers, the warmth of his palm on hers; as long as George continued to touch her, surely she could get past this-- this trial of truths. "I know- God, I know, but it's awful, George, too awful."_

He had no tears when Fred died, only a deep, aching hurt that offered him no respite, no opportunity for recovery.

The funeral was simple, undecorated but for somber bouquets of lilies and the rare rose. He sat in the back, unable to face the open casket or his weeping mother. The death and its circumstance burned in his mind. He hadn't known of the plan- he had been left entirely unawares, but he was the better one in charms. Perhaps, if he had known of the stunt before hand, he might have caught the misplaced hex- might have found it and fixed it.

Perhaps, had he not stepped away from his brother, separated himself from his twin- his own self made different- then maybe Fred might not have died, choking on his own lungs.

The swamp, probably meant as a final parting hurrah, had been spelled into nothingness the day after. A jar of the water, shrunk to fit his palm, rested near his chest, and he touched it now, wishing desperately for a time earlier when he might have made different choices.

One of his brothers led him toward the casket, and as he stared down at his own face, perfection in its non-life, he could only think of it as a body and not a once-living twin. This was not Fred- this was not his brother. He could only remember his early childhood, and those hard-worn bruises he flaunted as emblems of his individuality. What he wanted now- what he wished for more ardently and desperately than he had ever before- was to return to that time. He wanted to be himself at age nine again, and make a different choice.

Perhaps then . . . perhaps then, Fred might still be alive.

_George wanted to ignore the certainty and agony of his twin's death; it warred with the equal certainty and exhilaration that Fred lived still. "This is not real," he repeated to himself, his voice a hushed murmur of protest. "This never happened. It's not real; it never happened. Fred is alive." Hermione's sobs turned into silence, and the limp cold of her hand in his forced his feet into motion. The trees bent toward him, their branches reaching for his moving legs, snarling around his ankles and whipping against his brow. "It's not real," he told the trees and turned to Hermione, seeing her face for the first time. Her eyes stared, unseeing, caught in a nightmare of alternate history. "Hermione," he whispered, "Hermione, you can't believe it. Don't believe it- trust me. I'll get us out of here, just believe me."_

The Prophet ran the same headline for a week after, before the offices were ransacked and the presses replaced with new titles and headers. She couldn't bare to read the stories, the words disappearing into single lines that heralded the same truth again and again. The details were inconsequential, minor portions of a larger, harder finality that she couldn't avoid. A battle in the Department of Mysteries, the deaths of three Hogwarts students, and the return of He-who-shall-not-be-named; she cared for little of these details.

All she cared about- all she cared for- was that Harry Potter had died, and once again she was a face in the crowd, their grief her own and their fear her own. She was no one special, no one who could be labeled as important in his life, and for the remainder of her days, she would stay as such.

He was dead, and she was convinced that she could have prevented it.

_Existence, Hermione decided, was cold. Living, she felt, was a torture and blackness she wanted no part of. She saw Harry's face so clearly as it had been a week earlier, frowning at her from the station landing. She could hear his voice in her mind, the suspicious reproach that echoed with his parting. But she saw too clearly as well his shroud covered body as it laid upon the fire pyre, the permanent stillness of his visage- his eyes never again to open and spark with life and vitality. The two truths argued within her, and she felt the loss of reality between the two. It was too much, this new truth, and she wanted to never learn of it again. She wanted to close her eyes, lie upon the ground-_

_"It's not real, Hermione. Don't believe it."_

_But how could she not? Harry was dead and it was her fault. She had failed- her entire life, every decision made since her birth, all of its direction had resulted in failure._

_"Believe in me, Hermione. Believe in me."_

_Believe in- The voice sounded familiar, its tones vague and indistinct in her memory. A face swam to her vision: blue eyes and red hair, spiced apple tart and a gift . . . Her hand flexed once and then twice, her numbed fingers tracing the rough lines of a foreign palm in their purposeful movements._

_"It's not real. Trust me."_

_Trust- She needed to open her eyes, she needed to see his face, she needed--_

_"Listen to me, Hermione, it's not real!"_

_Her eyes opened, and she fell into sunlight._

_

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**II**

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**HERMIONE STARED AT **her discarded pack, the earlier movement doing much to restore warmth to her body. Beside her, George sat looking equally pensive, his brow lined in consideration. Neither had spoken since stumbling through the second doorway, and she was loathe to break the silence. Her mind actively tried to ignore the false past created by the previous area and so she focused on making sense of their current situation.

They had found another doorway, another Veil, crossed it, and seemed to have survived physically unscathed.

From what she could make of it, the other side of the Veil was a continuation of the forest, divided into sections by a series of additional doorways. What separated the areas beyond content, she still didn't know, but for the present, their current area appeared harmless. The trees revealed large patches of sunlight, and the air felt warm on her cheeks. She stared down at her gloved hands, the fabric still damp from melted snow. If George hadn't been there, she might not have ever left that nightmare.

Hermione shuddered. If her theory on alternate dimensions held any truth to it, then perhaps the past she saw existed on some other plane of time. In that reality, she had never become friends with Harry and Ron as a first year. She had never helped them with the trials to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone, or discovered the secret behind the Chamber. Her time-turner hadn't helped free Sirius their third year, and in their fourth year, Harry hadn't won the Triwizard Tournament. In that other reality, in their fifth year, Harry had died in the Department of Mysteries.

A cry caught in her throat, and with eyes quickly watering once again, she abruptly straightened, searching for distraction.

"Are you okay?" George tilted his head toward her, his expression tainted with exhaustion.

Hermione shook her head and smiled weakly. "No, not really. That place was-" _Terror and horror and worse than anything she could dream of._ "It's still too real."

He nodded and began to rise. "I'll put together a fire for us then. Why don't you rest?"

Hermione watched as he half stumbled toward the edge of the circle, his hands fumbling with the dead branches that layered the forest ground. "George?" He paused at her call and turned, eyes enquiring. "What did you see?"

A bleakness lined his mouth. "A nightmare." His words stung with a glaring resemblance. He gestured to a vague area near his heart. "But I knew it wasn't real- I would know if Fred died."

Hermione nodded, biting down on her lip. The pain came sharply and some of the terror eased. "It was the same for me. Ron and Harry never became my friends, and then-" Her voice broke, but she continued stubbornly. "- and then Harry died."

Saying the false history out loud helped a little more with the icy knot in her stomach and slowly, she began peeling off her gloves and coat. Once freed of the layers of down and wool, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The air tasted like a late spring, a budding ripeness to it that made her wish desperately for Hogwarts and its bramble-lined paths. Hogwarts was the one place, more so than Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, that she felt connected to her magic. The buzz she felt beneath her skin heightened there into a strumming constant that soothed and exhilarated.

She felt . . . _incomplete _when away from the magic, as if a filter had been passed over the world and suddenly the brightness turned into dulled grays and whites.

But this forest felt muted as well; somehow the color appeared less lustrous, less full than beyond the Veil. Kneeling, she ran a bare finger over the ground; the glass clung to her skin. Absently, she cupped the blades in her hand, the texture a curious mix of damp and sponginess. They felt nothing like the chilled, brittle strands she expected. Another oddity of the Veil, it seemed- perhaps the plants were singular to the place. If so, perhaps they oughtn't-

"Hermione, _let go of the grass_."

Surprised by the urgency in George's voice, Hermione looked down at her hand and immediately released the blades. The few strands she had held were now a vibrant green, the verdant color having created a small oasis of brilliance. Left on her palm were white streaks that stretched up onto her wrist, the pattern uncannily familiar. She had seen similar markings on Ron's arms, the scars left from their night in the Department of Mysteries. Gingerly, she touched one of the white lines; a wave of revulsion filled her on contact. It was like touching something dead.

"George--"

He held out his arms, pushing up his sleeves. The same lines criss-crossed his forearms and disappeared up into his shoulders. One curl peaked through his collar, and hurriedly, Hermione drew her hands to her chest. "The branches?"

George nodded, a shadow rolling over his expression. "We can't stay here. We need to find the next area- we came in from the north, so we should head south." He withdrew his wand and held it out on his palm. "_Point me._" The wand spun twice before pointing off to the space between his forefinger and thumb. "Grab your pack- I don't want to make camp until we get out of this place."

Her pack sat dangerously close to the transformed grass, and as she bent to retrieve it, she felt a violent tug from her ankle that nearly sent her sprawling. The grass had grown in the few minutes since its rebirth and multiplied. A coil of it had wrapped around her foot and pulled viciously from its shorter height on her leg.

"_Relashio!_" George yelled, before directing another string of hexes toward the bundle of branches he had discarded earlier. The entire lot had grown in size as well and leaves had sprouted from the dead limbs whose edges now angled with tiny thorns. Once freed, Hermione immediately dug out her wand, intent to inflict a few choice spells of her own on the suddenly sentient plant life. She paused, though, her arm extended, a thought niggling in the back of her mind.

Something had triggered the grass and branches- something different from the original contact they had made with the plants. The grass hadn't changed until after George had used the Four-Point spell. "Hermione- your feet!"

Hermione dodged another swipe by the grass; it had grown again and thickened to a foot-wide patch of knee-high blades. She lifted her wand and then stopped abruptly, the words nearly past her lips, when realization finally hit her. "Stop using your wand, George! Stop- it's the magic that's making it worse!"

"I can't bloody- _Reducto!_- well stop, these- _Impedimenta!_- things if I can't use- _Relashio!_- magic!" George paused long enough to duck past the bonded branches, their individual lengths having morphed into a solid body as wide as a tree trunk.

"You have to stop using your wand," Hermione insisted. "Every time you use a spell the grass grows bigger and those branches get worse. You _have to stop_."

George hunched forward, his arms crossing defensively. "Then how do you suggest we deal with these- these _things_?"

She stubbornly ignored the scornful tone. "We don't. The grass can't follow us, and as long as we don't use magic, the sticks won't grow any larger. North is that way, right?" She pointed in the same direction his wand had earlier, and, making an about-face, she continued, "So we go this way without touching anything and without using any magic."

It took a handful of precious minutes more to coax George into agreeing, and even then, it was only with great reluctance that he tucked away his wand and began the trek southward. Hermione stepped carefully behind him, mindful to avoid dragging branches and any other piece of flora that might leave more of those white lines on her body. The sunlight that she had earlier taken for mid-morning remained at the same level of dulled brightness, and as the hours stretched, she wondered at the woods' enchantments.

This world was a static world, she realized. Nothing stirred, nothing moved. There was no wind or sound beyond those created by their bodies. The sun never left its position in the sky, remaining a fixed stain of yolk. The warmth she noted from earlier was a stagnant warmth, no longer a relief from the deep cold of what was only the day before. Even more so than the focused stillness, there was a greater absence, something she was only noticing now that the terror from the false-past had lessened and the threat from their current area had abated. Her blood did not buzz, did not hum. She felt nothing of the tempered stretch that came from her magic; it had vanished- more so than it ever did when she was home with her family.

Now that she recognized it, a depression settled over her. Unwillingly, her pace began to slow and her shoulders grew heavy from the weight of her pack. A deep pressure dug into her back, and slowly, the distance between her and George stretched further and further. It was like a slow fall, hazy and comforting in its thickness. She felt that even if she closed her eyes, her feet would still move and her task would still complete. So very easily . . . she could . . . and sleep would be _so nice_, wouldn't it?

Just to close her eyes and--

The numbness on her cheek returned her to reality. The tree trunk she laid against was slowly gaining in color and vitality, and in one clumsy movement, she threw herself away from it. Her pack was missing, as were her coat and gloves. Hermione felt for her pocket and exhaled in relief; her wand was still intact. She had no idea of the hour, or how long she had been pressed to the tree, its silent siren song having lulled her into complacence. More than any of that though, she needed to know:

Where was George?

"George? George!" She ducked under a low-hanging branch but got caught by a creeper trellis that grazed her throat; the vine exploded in bright reds and oranges. She had no markers to go by, no frame of reference to ground herself to. She could use her wand, but--

The vines had thorns of their own, who knew what new weapons her magic might give to them, or to whatever piece of flora George was entranced by. "George! Where are _you_? Please say something! Come on, Geo--"

A bramble had him, its greedy tendrils wrapped three times thick around his ankles. George laid unmoving, his eyes closed, and his lips spread in a smile so peaceful, so contented, that it transcended into a separate sort of horror from the previous doorway. It was an expression of oblivion, and mindless of her own actions, Hermione attacked the bramble barehanded, the thorny brush tearing at her skin and streaking her palms with more veins of white.

George did not wake upon being freed; his body rested as a dead weight in her arms, as she half pulled, half carried him away from the reach of the bramble. "Wake up, George- _please_ wake up," she begged, her eyes intent on his face. He did not stir, not at her words, or from any other entreaty. His breathing continued, shallow but steady, and using only the unmoving sun as her directional, Hermione tried to continue their original task.

She dared not use her wand; without George to help her, she wasn't certain that she could protect both of them against whatever dangers her magic would create. Panting from the effort, she managed to pull George onto her back, his arms locked around her shoulders, and his feet dragging behind her. Every step took concentration, and time seemed endless.

She wished the sun would move, that a breeze would stir, that some animal somewhere would cry out; she wished for anything that would change the unchanging constant of this place. The forest was alive but dead, and its hateful silence only intensified the depression she desperately tried to ignore. She needed George to wake up, she needed something- _anything_- to distract her from it, from the latent pull the forest put on her even now.

"I never really disapproved of your jokes, you know," she told him, pretending that he could hear her regardless of his state and hoping that she could last long enough to reach the next doorway. "I was a little jealous, actually, of how easily you managed to ignore the rules. I couldn't do that, not without a good reason; and all of my good reasons only work if I'm trying to help someone. I don't know how to- to _not _care what others think of me."

She felt the blister forming under her right heel, and an ache throbbed at the base of her back. She adjusted her shoulders, and George nearly slipped from her grip, one of his arms landing dangerously near an exposed tree root. It took too long to position him onto her back again, and her body protested from the strain. Yet, her feet still obeyed and she still moved forward.

"I liked Viktor; honestly, I did, and not because of the reasons Ron seemed to think I did. He really listened to me, you know? He didn't laugh at my ideas or think my opinions were silly. He just sat quietly and listened- and he asked questions. Because he was interested, not because he needed something." Hermione watched the tips of her shoes nudge forward another handful of inches and worried her lip as once again George's arms threatened to drop from her shoulders. "You do that, too, sometimes . . . you listen, I mean. It's nice to have you be like that and- and pay attention."

Her feet didn't lift high enough, and she tripped forward, caught on a fallen tree limb. She fell, twisting sideways, and barely avoided a clump of lichen. George landed heavily on her, his arms entangled with her clothes and hair, and his face trapped in the hollow of her neck. The urge to cry threatened strongly, fed by fear of and ignorance of the strange world she had willingly walked into. "Please wake up," she whispered, her voice thick and clotted. "George, I need you to wake up. Please- I can't do this alone, I need _you_--"

"-ermione . . ."

The brief syllables of her name vibrated against her skin, the warmth of his moving lips sending thrills of relief and something unnameable through her. "Oh thank the gods!"

"_M-merlin_. . . my h-head aches- where are w-we?" His eyes were still closed, and she wasn't sure whether it was from exhaustion or the after-effects of the forest-induced sleep.

"We were separated, and I got away in time, but you were caught by this bramble, and you were so _pale_, George, it was awful. You wouldn't wake up even when I carried you, and we've lost our packs, somewhere, and I think we've been going southward, but--"

"Take a b-breath, Granger," and the affectionate humor in his voice made her ignore his use of her surname. Overwhelmed entirely, she tightened her hold on his back and pressed her lips to his forehead. She felt him still entirely, and nervously, her mind catching up with her actions, she tried to disentangle herself from him.

"Sorry. I just- I was _scared_, and you weren't moving for such a long time. I didn't dare use my wand; it might have made everything worse--"

"You're rambling ag-gain." Shakily, he pushed himself off from her, his eyes finally opening to show the familiar, comforting blue she had missed in their brief absence. His lips quirked into a tired half smile, and unknown to her, her hand raised to touch his cheek; the contact buzzed electric, and something sparked in his gaze, a decision evident in the tightening of his jaw. "Hermione, this isn't the time or p-place, but I should tell you-" he broke off abruptly, his gaze moving past her and into the forest. "Is that a _chair_?"

Awkwardly, Hermione moved out from under him and ignored the swell of disappointment that nagged her stomach. _Something_ had almost happened, and for all that she couldn't pinpoint its make, she felt the interruption keenly. "Where?"

George pointed to a direction vaguely east. "There- two of t-them actually. And they're definitely chairs."

Hermione rose to her tiptoes and tried in vain to see the alluded to objects. "I'm not seeing it, sorry."

"They're just through there-" George shook his head, apparently thinking better of it. "Never mind; I'll t-take us there." He seized her hand, the motion rough, but his grip was gentle. A smile fought through her weariness, and Hermione allowed herself to be dragged along.

It took only a few minutes to reach the destination, but even from several feet away, the objects could only be identified as chairs, and not all the sort of chairs one might possibly dream up existing in the middle of forest. They were the formal dining sort, with polished oak for bracing and plush, embroidered cushions on the seats. George circled the chairs twice, his hand still firm on Hermione's own. Lacing his fingers through hers, he finally stopped. "There's really nothing for it then."

He took two steps, braced, and then sat down, dragging her along with him. She had no time for a reaction; the world spun once, twice, and then--

The new world was brilliance and glory, and she could only kneel before it.

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_tragedy finds even the happy_

**NINE**

_by: s. stewart_

_aka_

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

14Jun09


	10. TEN

_**A/N: **__Finally reached the turning point. Only a little bit more to go now. Two things: One, you'll find a longer author's note at the end regarding my take on Ginny; two, this chapter is full of stolen ideas from many a different idea regarding the afterlife. Take what you will from it, but please don't think this is my attempt at religious conversion. I only bring this up because one of my pre-readers seemed to think that was my intention. Honestly, as you'll see shortly, I can hardly imagine what religion one might think I'm pushing. . ._

_And after that ominous opening--  
_

_**Disclaimer: **__It's all JKR's; beyond the intangible, I receive no kind of compensation from this story._

_

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_

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_aka_

_carpetfibers_

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_

**TEN**

_brilliance and glory, the fantastic is a trick pony_

**I**

**"AND LEST THOU** lift up thine eyes unto heaven, and when thou seest the sun, and the moon, and the stars, even all the host of heaven, shouldest be driven to worship them, and serve them, which the Lord thy God hath divided unto all nations under the whole heaven."

From a very distant and aged part of his memory, George drew out the verse, spoken the once during his childhood. A neighbor had offered the chance to attend a midnight church service, and his father, interested in all things Muggle- religion and otherwise- had accepted. George remembered the preternatural chants and the strange recitations of words both foreign and familiar. It was the language of his magic, and the language of the divine, and in the spare sixty-eight minutes of service, George was a convert, a devoted disciple to the great unknown power that was referred to and glorified as God and Almighty and Savior.

His faith, so easily born, was just as easily forgotten come the passing of a single week, and yet, all these years later, in the dawning glow of a distant sun, he remembered his ardency. He remembered the effortless completion the temporary faith gave him, the connection to one and all, and in those Latin chants, the belief that his magic and this God's magic were surely part of the same grand magic.

He envisioned heaven then, on that night so long ago, as a place of beauty and softness and light. He imagined trees adorned in supple cotton, the bark etched in gold that bent to his touch and melted from the heat of his skin. He saw a ground laden in waist-high grasses, fragrant of citrus and honey. And there, waiting for him at the end of the long road, before a cliff above a great sea- there, waiting for him--

Something.

Something unnameable, unspeakable, and yet!

Yet still, knowable.

"Oh _god_."

Hermione clutched his hand, even as she fell heavily to her knees. George mirrored her action, a dull ache from the fall registering distantly. It was just as he once imagined it, this other place, this _other_ piece of the Veil. The path rose before them, a waterless river weaving through a rising slope covered in swaying grasses. A single tree adorned the vista, a dark smudge at the end of the road. A darker shadow sat beneath it, the shape indistinguishable and yet, George felt he knew what was waiting for them there. The first tentative steps he made toward it, his pants stained from the clay-rich earth underfoot, brought the distance into stark relief.

"George, nothing I read mentioned _any_ of this. I don't know that we'll ever even get out of here, wherever here is. . ." The confidence he normally heard in her words was missing, and worriedly, he glanced down at her expression. She was frowning, a gesture far too common with her of late, and beyond that- past the unkempt hair and smear of dirt on her cheek, she seemed lost, like a child left alone in a crowded market. The wistful childishness caught there in her lips forced him into conversation.

"Maybe it's heaven." The intended levity he had hoped for landed too seriously, and the silent consideration Hermione gave it was unexpected. "That is, er. . . you said the Veil might be made up of alternative planes of existence, right? Then maybe this is just another plane, something like heaven or purgatory."

"Maybe." She pushed back at her hair, her fingers coming to rest around her throat. "It seems like a bit of a stretch, though. I mean, surely if magic was so closely linked to the spiritual, they'd have mentioned it at school."

"But they do. I know you're not much for it, and Trelawney hardly inspires faith, but prophecies and signs don't exactly pop out from nothing. Surely if there's a message, there must also be a sender. Or so I think." While George was pleased to have Hermione regain some of her normal manner, the skeptical look she gave him was unappreciated. "I'm not saying it's God or a god or gods even. I'm just saying that prophecies come from somewhere, so why couldn't that _somewhere _be here?"

She stayed quiet, her hands, streaked with a misshapen spider web of white, clutched more tightly beneath her jaw. She stumbled, and he reached to help her; his hands were met with a stiff shrug, and this time, her stumble was a purposeful one away from him. George slowed his steps and frowned. "Hermione?"

"It's a table."

George stopped entirely, the dulled ache in his feet sparking briefly. "What?"

"That thing there, in the distance." She pointed toward the end of the horizon, to where the tree and sky met. "It's a table. We're walking in a field of gold, on a path rich in clay toward a single large tree with a table beneath it. It's like something straight from the Bible, and then you say: 'Maybe it's heaven.'"

She sounded angry, and for the life of him, George had no idea why. "It was only a joke--"

"Not everything can be a joke, George!" She turned on him, her hands finally falling away from her throat. The blot of knotted white there forced him to glance away. "How stupid can I be? How arrogant? To think that we could pass through a door into another world and return safely--"

"Hermione!" Carefully, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Beneath the woolly fabric he felt her tremble, and loosely, he lowered his hands to her arms. "It was only a joke. I don't think this is really heaven or purgatory or any of that. This is just some _other_ place. So what if it's a table waiting there at the end? So what? Maybe the table's there just like those chairs were there in the last place." His voice lightened. "Besides, isn't heaven supposed to be hard to get into?"

Hermione laughed, and George realized he had missed the sound. "There you are; can't have you losing it just yet."

She didn't reply, her expression lost behind the fall of her hair, but her posture straightened and her step gained some energy. He released a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was a hysterical Hermione. He knew little about it, but he knew enough to recognize his current numbness as a side-effect of the last area. Sooner or later, it would catch up to him, and he would need her then. He would--

She licked her lips before running the back of her hand over her cheek. He was reminded of his own chapped lips, and slowly, he mirrored her gesture. He had almost made a mistake back there, a bigger mistake than throwing hexes at those pieces of wood. When consciousness had found him, and his cheek had registered the slow movement of her chest beneath his skin, he'd wanted to pretend oblivion longer. She was all warmth and softness, and the past few months of unwanted and unexpected reactions to her struck him in one relentless surge that left his breath short and his thoughts dazed. Then she touched him, her hand cold and rough with dirt and grime; but it was perfection, and he wanted to tell her then, tell her why he'd been avoiding her, why he felt so less himself when she was around.

George watched the way her hand clenched and unclenched, the white scars staining her fingers with its undesired spirals. He knew she was meant for his brother, knew that she was meant for a bigger story, a greater future than the girlfriend of a bloke who spent his free hours making trick wands. Not that his wands were anything to shrug about; WWW was pretty profitable from the likes of fake wands, and if they managed to break into the Muggle market like Fred seemed to think they could, then that success was going to evolve into a genuine--

Hermione had stopped walking. He turned, blinking the daze from his eyes. "What is it?"

She could only point ahead, and George squinted into the sunlight, his view of the horizon blacked into shadow by the glare. But the clouds shifted, a breeze pressing more of the warm, wheat-scented air into his lungs, and the unmistakable silhouette of man came into being. The man was too far away for definition, but the figure was tall and slim, and, currently, unmoving. Immediately, George made for his wand, moving to the front.

Hermione made a huffing sound behind him. "Thanks for playing the big, strong man, George, but I'm perfectly capable myself." She emphasized her point by matching his longer strides, and George questioned once again how someone could be simultaneously so irritating and wonderful.

"It was force of habit, Hermione, nothing personal. More importantly, do you think it's human?"

"Maybe. If this is heaven or purgatory or whatever, then maybe there are other people here. We came here looking for Sirius after all." Despite her words, she sounded doubtful, and her hand held all the tighter on her wand. George stared at her fingers a moment longer, the thin lengths stressed and uncompromising in their grip; he exhaled slowly and resolved himself.

"I'm tired of walking and being cautious." He freed her hand from its death grip and tugged. "Aren't you?"

She hesitated, plainly caught by her normal inclinations. His gaze still on her own, he laced his fingers through hers, the pair matching and closing with something akin to relief; with a tug more, they began to run. The weariness was there, certainly, unsympathetic in its constant presence, but the adrenaline spurred the desired energy. He knew what awaited them at the end of the road; he knew who stood there beside the table, features disguised by sun and shadow. George knew it, and Hermione knew it, and neither dared to admit the unnerving fear that knowledge caused. There was only the soft give of earth beneath their feet, the rush of their breath in their ears, and the bulge of tree and table in the horizon.

When definition was finally granted and the tree proved itself to be etched in gold and silver, its leaves carved from crystal and its branches heavy with fruits of amber and garnet--

When shadow shifted to alight the table in shades of stained mahogany and cedar, its lengths heavy with the scent of myrrh and magnolia--

When the man turned his head, skin un-scarred and eyes untouched by age and tragedy--

When Hermione cried and broke loose from his side--

When his feet stumbled and his knees found ground again--

The words, graceless and clumsy, poured from his mouth. "Are we dead then? Is this really heaven? Is it?"

The man who was both stranger and mourned friend laughed with a throat absent of sadness or fear or any of the uglier earth-bound emotions; Sirius Black laughed and all sound stopped.

"No, George. Not heaven. And not death. Not for the likes of you-- not yet."

* * *

**II**

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**INVISIBILITY PROTECTED AGAINST** only one of the senses, and Neville Longbottom had learned that lesson in his third year. Success, he knew, created a feeling of invincibility, of confidence, and his lifetime of failure helped save him from that arrogance. As it was, he was completely aware when two of his roommates slipped out from their shared room; he recognized the muted swish of the cloak as it swept across the floor. He waited until two minutes passed before creeping up from his bed as well, and not daring chance his hand at a charm that might camouflage his striped pajamas, he grabbed one of the _notice-me-not_ baubles Hermione had crafted for him last year in the DA.

His pursuit was interrupted half-way down the stair by a slight form who very much _noticed_ him once he careened into her. Ginny was quick to clamp a hand over his mouth to prevent any audible reactions to the collision. Holding a finger to her lips, she slowly removed her hand. Neville nodded in affirmation to her motions, and after a moment more of self-collection, a catalog that included two new bruises and decent scrape on his knee, he followed after her, trying to ignore the warmth that radiated from where her hand now held his wrist.

It was a difficult thing to ignore the existence of a girl like Ginny Weasley when continuously forced to share meals, friends, and after-hour pursuits with her. While he generally operated on the periphery of his friends' more clandestine activities, the end of their fifth year had changed that in a huge way. Neville had helped, not blundered! He had managed at least three real acts of heroism, and for a boy who trembled at the thought of stepping into his new DADA (and former Potions) Professor's classroom, this sort of accomplishment was life-changing.

But even if Neville had managed to defeat all of the Death Eaters single-handedly and forced Voldemort into unconditional surrender, he knew well enough that Ginny Weasley would never give him more than a passing glance. He'd known this truth since his second year and the Welcoming Feast; after the Chamber of Secrets, that crush that had all but glowed like a giant neon sign amplified even further. She hid it better afteward, but Neville had noticed and no matter how diligent she was in her efforts to appear unaffected, unbothered, and untouched by the goings-on in Harry's life, Neville knew better.

He might be a slipshod wizard, but he knew people, and more than most people, he knew Ginny Weasley.

He also knew enough about her to realize that whatever admiration he might have for her smile or her slightly up-turned nose was destined to be unrequited. After all, compared to the Boy-Who-Lived, what sort of chance did he have?

She spoke once they were past the common room and the Fat Lady's snoring portrait. "I'm sure they've gone to the Astronomy Tower. The Room of Requirement's not reliable recently, too many people know about it."

"What do you think--"

Ginny cut him short with a tight smile, the lines almost hiding the hurt behind the words. "Hermione, I'm sure. It's all Harry cares about lately."

Neville, trying not to enjoy the way her fingers trembled on his pulse, nodded in agreement. Dinner that night had been buzzing with unvoiced tension, whole conversations occuring in silence and translated through untouched plates of food. It was a conversation that many had had out loud during the past month. Neville learned of Hermione's disappearance two days after Christmas, and on the first night back at Hogwarts, Dumbledore himself had addressed the absence. The professors acted as if it was a planned vacation, but even he knew better than that. Hermione Granger miss school voluntarily? Not even he was that gullible.

The tower's stair was as dark as it was empty, and careful not to trip over his partner's sock-clad feet, he began the climb to the top. Two voices reached him midway, the plain anger in the tones evincing itself in its relative volume. Ginny released his wrist and knelt beside the doorway; Neville fell into a more awkward crouch behind her. Moonlight stained the opened doorway and drew the arguing pair's shadows into entwined silhouettes. A twinge of conscience reminded him that eavesdropping was hardly a nice thing to do; he shushed the qualm with a shake and bite of his lower lip. He could hardly leave Ginny alone at this point, could he?

No, he decided, he most definitely couldn't.

And besides, Harry was yelling.

"--blame me for this then, Ron? You're saying this is my fault?"

Ron laughed, the sound entirely too caustic for comfort. "Yeah, I am. Isn't it though? Not very likely that Hermione would just up and take off on a lark, is it? 'Course she ran off to do something for you. She probably read about some hidden well or magical root in that bloody forest, and now she's lost or injured or Merlin knows what else."

Neville bit down harder, not worried by the stinging pain that twinged through his jaw. Better a bloodied lip than tearing his nails further ragged, or so his Gran kept insisting when she dipped his finger tips in lye. Naturally that silent argument from dinner was about Hermione. Part of him felt relieved. He'd rather it be another toss-up about their missing house-mate than something more sinister like Death Eater invasions or a Dementor attack.

"You don't know that." Harry didn't sound convincing. "She left with _your_ brother after all. For all we know, George had been blackmailing her, maybe he forced her to help him with something, some new invention for the shop."

Ron scoffed. "That's a reach, mate, and you know it. No, Hermione took off on her camping adventure because she wanted to help you." Ron's voice lost some of its anger, resignation replacing its fervor. "Be honest now, we both know it's always about you."

Harry stepped back, plainly stricken, the insinuation in Ron's tone having struck a palpable nerve. "Not like that, Ron! You know I'd never--"

Neville tried to inch forward, the voices having quieted; the movement knocked Ginny forward and into the doorway. Instantly, the argument stopped. Ginny sighed and then straightened to stand. "Give it up Neville, we've been found out."

Sheepishly, Neville shuffled out into the open as well; he regretted his decision to do so immediately. It wasn't his first time being a third wheel, or fourth, or fifth, or really, any number sort of wheel. It was a feeling he was well used to, that sense of being there at the wrong place and wrong time, utterly unwanted and unneeded. Normally, he was prodded, somewhat tactfully, into exiting the picture.

For once, though, he was ignored; he found he disliked that feeling even more.

"What're you doing here, Ginny?" Ron asked, a hand rubbing across his eyes.

"Making sure you two don't kill each other." Her words sounded confident, but her step toward Harry's side was tentative and racked with doubt. "Can't you both give it a rest? Hermione made a decision, and we all know that she's going to show up one of these days, with George in tow, perfectly fine and without a scratch."

"It isn't like she took off for a week-end." Harry shook off Ginny's proffered hand.

The space separating him from Ginny was barely a hand's width, but to Neville, the distance looked like miles. Harry's easy dismissal of Ginny's comfort grated at him, but as always, he stayed quiet, the nervous grin affixed to his lips equal parts foolish and pathetic. He tried, instead, for appeasement. "We shouldn't be arguing about whose fault it is. Does anyone even know what she was working on?"

"It had to do with _Harry_," Ron bit out.

Harry glared. "And we know she working on it with George."

Neville listened as they broke down the details of what they did know: it involved maps of various enchanted woods, cross-plane travel, and apparently copious amounts of Polyjuice if Hermione's recent purchases from the apothecary were to be trusted. The increasingly miserable expression on Ginny's thin face slowed his agreeable nods and murmurs of agreement to the point that eventually even Ron noticed Neville's attention had wavered.

"Gin?"

She shuddered once, a powerful shiver that seemed to loose whatever ill-emotion gripped her. She adopted flippancy that tore at Neville's chest when she replied. "Neither of you considered it, but maybe Hermione and George went away together because they were, you know, _together_."

Ginny didn't wait for Harry to reject the suggestion, and Ron's shock at the suggestion prevented him from any reply. "I mean, it's not like she's dated anyone beyond Krum, and they did seem awfully friendly over the summer." She paused and attempted a smile that passed muster but for the blatant pain in her eyes. "Those gloves she got for her birthday, George gave them to her."

Ron pushed aside his stupor. "Don't be daft. Hermione go for George? _George_? I'd sooner believe her falling for a Slytherin."

"Oh, but Hermione running off with you is so more likely?" In opposition to the antagonism of her words, Ginny physically retreated, her huddled warmth drawing close to Neville's side. He wished he could somehow re-direct the conversation, hating where it was leading but unable to deter it otherwise. He wished to be ten years older, wiser and more experienced when it came to people and how they hurt each other. He knew none of the right words for it, but he recognized enough of it to see that Ginny's intent was solely masochistic; there was no distemper for her brother or her boy-hero. The pain she inflicted was meant only for her.

"I didn't say that!" But Ron's flushed ears and stained throat betrayed him. "I just--" And again, his body betrayed him; Ron's gaze gave it all away. Harry stubbornly returned the stare, refusing to acknowledge the meaning behind it.

"Right. _Right_." The low laugh Ginny gave hid little of the sob within it. "There's no point to even trying, is there Harry? I mean, you know I love you. You know I've loved you since I was ten years old. You're all I've ever loved. But I'm still only second best, right? I'll always rate behind _her_."

"It's not like that, Ginny, I swear it." His protests rejected from one front, Harry turned to another. "You know me, Ron, I would never-- I mean, I know how you feel about Hermione. And yes, I love her, but it's not that sort of feeling. She's my best friend."

"She's mine, too." Ron tugged on the sleeve of his sweater, the yellow 'R' a crooked mess across his chest. "And Ginny's my sister. You have to do right by that, you can't leave doubt." Neville found his shoulder in a wrenching grasp that spun him round. "Come on, Neville, it's too late and too cold to be out here, raging about."

"But--" Neville was loathe to leave Ginny to the wolves of this particular conversation, she was brittle glass and bound nerves in her present state. Ron shook his head, and reluctantly, Neville followed.

He gave a last glance behind him, watching as Harry drew Ginny's tightly held elbows to his chest and tucked her brow beneath his jaw. Neville's heart ached, the pain hollow and sticky above his stomach. He wished he had a quarter of the ability needed to brew the sort of potion needed for the courage he always seemed to lack. If he had that extra quotient of supposed Gryffindor hardiness, he might have turned back around, grabbed Ginny, and forced her to pay attention to the message he sent her daily in his gaze. She would never have to doubt her standing in his heart; she would never have to guess.

But that was the sort of thing heroes did, and he was just Neville Longbottom, herbology-lover and toad-owner. The likes of Ginny aspired-- and deserved-- better.

Ron laughed, the noise noxiously loud in the silence. "I was just thinking, really, it's ironic, but if Hermione was here, she'd know just what to do. She always does."

Neville did not return the humor, the night-time gloom having entrenched him fully. "That's not irony, Ron, that's tragedy."

* * *

**III**

**

* * *

  
**

**SHE WEPT NOT** from relief. She wanted to blame lack of proper sleep and exhaustion; she wanted to lay cause to the excess adrenaline and the unnecessary sprint taken minutes earlier. She even wanted to put fault to George, as it was his idea and his hope that made _her_ hope and _her_ dream. He had believed, and so, eventually, did she.

But no, Hermione wept not from relief that it all-- the whole tortuous months of secret-keeping and corner-made planning-- finally had ended.

She wept because Harry would see nothing of it. Sirius Black, whole and untouched, restored to a youth robbed from him, a health and vibrancy that shook her to the core with its intolerably belated justice, was a sight Harry would never have. He would never see his god-father happy and clear-eyed; Harry would see nothing of it.

Because, in the end, it was all for nothing.

Because, in the end, neither of them, not Hermione or George, had ever considered that Sirius might not want to go back.

And the futility of it, the absolute miserable failure of it, did what the Veil and its ruthless wood could not.

"There's a time and place for all things, Hermione," Sirius told her, his palm soft and cool across her brow. "It was brave of you both to manage your way this far, but your place is outside, with Harry and Hogwarts and the rest of the world. Your time isn't _here_. Not yet."

George stared dully, his disappointment masked behind glassy eyes. "Is this it, then? What comes after-" he stumbled over the right word for it. "- _after_? This?"

"This is just a place, George, like any other. And some day, you'll find it as you're supposed to, when the time is right." Sirius's smile was beautiful and unclouded by the normal doubt that tinged such words.

Hermione wanted to slap the expression from his face. "So you're just going to sit here and play meadow-philosopher while Harry's out there needing you? I guess death hasn't fixed your irresponsibile streak."

"Hermione-"

"Don't, George, don't _even_." She was not about to allow herself to be mollified, not over something this important. Passivity could be relegated to lesser occasions. "Am I so wrong, Sirius? Because as I listen, I'm only hearing words like _won't_ and _shouldn't_, and nothing of _can't_. You're choosing to not help, to not come back!"

The smile lost some of its joy, but his calm, that hateful quietude that oozed from his every gesture, only grew. Sirius took her trembling hands between his own and wordlessly brought her back into his embrace. "Tell me, Hermione, what will my return do for Harry? How will I help him?"

"You could protect him, be there for him. He thinks everyone he loves leaves him-- you could prove otherwise!" She heard the childishness in her words but spoke them nonetheless. "He needs to know that not everyone leaves him, that not everyone he loves gets taken away."

"But people do leave." George's stupor lifted, replaced by a jaded weariness. He rubbed at his neck, gaze up-turned. "People are always going to leave, and sometimes, they don't come back."

The truth of it stung, and she clung to the coarse linen beneath her cheek, relishing the comfort of it against her skin. "He can still come back; Sirius can come back--"

"Hermione, who are we kidding?" The linen was replaced by George's palms, and gently, he cradled her face between his hands. "The Veil has been trying to get the message through to us since we first stepped through. Re-writing our memories, taking away our magic, and then throwing this _Sirius _at us." His voice softened. "He's gone, Hermione, dead and gone, and nothing we do can fix that. Death isn't something broken, it just is."

She was too tired, too worn down to summon the proper words to refute the irrefutable logic. Her plan had been thorough, her preparation spot-on; there was nothing flawed in it. Why should she be so ready to admit defeat? To resign herself to failure? It could still work; she stood up, knocking free from the comfort and ease that pillowed her from all sides.

It would work; it had to, for Harry.

"No." She pushed back at her hair, relishing the feel of the dirt and grime caught there; it grounded her in reality. "This place plays with your emotions; it wants you to give up. Sirius," and her vision doubled, the man seated at the table gaining two faces, and she reared back in revulsion.

"No," she repeated, mindless of George's hands on her shoulders. "You're _Sirius Black_. You are real, and you're coming back with us. We'll bring you back, and then Harry-- Harry, he'll be fine again. He'll be happy. He won't be alone anymore."

"Sirius is dead, Hermione. Dead." George tried to be gentle, careful, but her stubborn adamance against reason frustrated him. He turned to the man-shaped form, a creature wrought from straw and earth, the image of Sirius Black receding from its form with each passing second. Only Hermione's will held it in place still. "Help me convince her."

He could think of no creature from school that matched the straw-man's description, but without cause or reason, he knew it was benign. Whatever spirit or magic gave it life, gave it goodness and kindness as well. "Help me," he begged.

The straw-man, no longer man at all, grinned from behind its mask, its eyes black holes that reassured not of nothingness, but of a greater, expansive _more_. "Sit and eat. Eat and sleep. Sleep and dream."

Hermione shuddered, even as she allowed George to seat her at the huge table. The wood warmed her palms, the cold white lines disappearing from her skin as she touched the cedar surface. The jagged spiderweb of scarring on George's throat smoothed into its previously unmarred expanse. She wanted to refuse the fruit pressed to her lips; she wanted to choke on the sticky sweetness. It was another spell, she knew; the Veil had concocted another test, another challenge, and just like Greek myth, she was swallowing down the seeds of her own demise. She willed her rescue, pleaded with her eyes from across the table, but sleep had its grip on George already.

He smiled tiredly, his hair dulled to a light copper by the richer hues of the table beneath them. "Sleep and dream, Hermione, and then--"

He couldn't complete the words, but she knew the rest already. The straw-man reassured her further, its voice wretchedly perfect in its intonations of a long-dead man. "Rest and trust, Hermione Granger. All is well. Sleep and dream, and then--"

"--and then wake," she finished, her voice a haggard hush.

The straw-man nodded, and for a moment returned to its earlier form. Sirius Black smiled down at her and lightly touched her brow. "All is well. All will be well. Once you return to him, your Harry Potter. Once you go back."

And then she dreamed; she dreamed the dreams of small children, visions fraught with color and stark hope. She dreamt until the sun rose and set, and when finally her dreams ended and her eyes drew open, she realized that her tears had never been tears of anger or frustration. Hermione had cried because, like wishing wells and falling stars, some hopes never come true, and some dreams end only to break in reality. She cried because she was grieving.

"Where's George?"

The straw-man grinned its empty grin. "He finished before you; he's strong, your friend."

Hermione inhaled sharply, her nose filled with the scent of cedar and tongue wet with the downy musk of the golden tree. "And me? Am I strong as well?"

The straw-man didn't answer, but held out his hand. Carefully, Hermione took it, her body moving with none of the previous aches and pains. "What happens now?"

The straw-man's form blurred and then focused; her best friend, specs askew and hair unkempt, smiled back at her. "Now, Hermione Granger, you wake. I need you back with me."

"Oh Harry--" she tried to call, but the world spun, and her with it.

When it stilled again, gone was the field and golden tree, gone was the straw-man and his table. Damp moss tickled at Hermione's ankles and throat, and above her stretched a dotted canopy of green and sunlight. Distantly, she heard voices calling her name, and beside her, George roused enough to respond. When the voices neared enough to gain distinction, she found herself unable to reply. One of them, a wizard in Ministry robes, knelt beside her, fingers pressed to her wrist. Another held George at a distance; it was only his words that made it through the thick muteness filling her.

"It's all right, George," she said, standing with the help of the wizard-- Shacklebolt, she recognized him now. "I'm fine. I'm-" She seemed unaware of the tears clouding her vision; she smiled and exhaled with a staggered cry. "I'm awake now, after all."

It was Shacklebolt who, a few minutes later, informed her that her adventure of two weeks had actually translated to a loss of nearly three months.

He was also the one who told her that Hogwarts had been attacked and Dumbledore left injured.

It wasn't until she returned to Hogwarts, though, and walked into a common room silent with fear and grief that she learned the most important detail:

Harry was missing.

* * *

_brilliance and glory, the fantastical is a trick pony_

**TEN**

_by: s. stewart_

_aka_

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

11Feb10

* * *

_**A/N: **__It must be expected that when an author has drawn out the writing of a story as long as I have—five years—that there are bound to be a few continuity issues found within the style, the characterization, unplotted plot points, etc. Let me just say that my take on Ginny has not suffered from this._

_Some recent reviews have mentioned a dislike of Ginny; my characterization of her has never been an intentional attempt to bully her. I've always felt that her particular experiences, and how those early traumas might affect her later life, in particular her relationship with Harry, were downplayed in the books. I love JKR with a passion, but I hardly think an eleven year old girl is going to grow up perfectly stable after surviving the sort of mental rape Ginny underwent. _

_That kind of abuse is bound to translate into major trust and self-esteem issues; when I originally read OotP, I thought JKR was hinting at some of that with Ginny's seeming over-night it-girl transformation. Instead, in my opinion, it was cheapened to appear like a tactic to later gain Harry's seemingly inevitable attentions._

_I've tried to convey some of my thoughts regarding how Ginny might have developed had she been allowed to be something other than Harry's requisite 'in' to the Weasley family. I may be doing this clumsily—in fact, I know I've done this clumsily, but there it is nonetheless._

_I would, by the way, love to hear some of your thoughts on Ginny. Throw it in a review, or pm me. I've found that, among my friends, I'm in the minority regarding her. I like her, I just think I like her more when I make her human and weak like the rest of us._

_-carpetfibers_


	11. ELEVEN

_**Disclaimer: **__It's all JKR's._

_**A/N: **__Thank you all again for your support and patience. After another long wait, here's chapter eleven. One more chapter and the epilogue left. Almost there!_

* * *

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

* * *

**ELEVEN**

_even the trees listen_

**I**

**HERMIONE WAS READY** when the interview was requested. She'd waited for two days and three nights for someone to blame her, and with the resignation of a willing martyr, she prepared herself. She spent Transfiguration with her hands bent, fingers flexed, and nails hard into her skin; but McGonagall never spoke, never signaled for the after-class one-on-one Hermione was so sure would come. Surely then in DADA Snape would say something- he of all people would have words of recrimination for her foolishness, for her selfish need to play hero; he ignored her completely, and even her failed attempts at his direct lessons provoked no response.

It would come, then, she reasoned, during the debriefing. She waited in pained patience, answering each of the proffered questions, and studying Sturgis Podmore with cautious eyes. His expression shared nothing of his internal thoughts, and almost desperately, she wished he would just get to it: she had done wrong, she had made multiple mistakes, and because of her, the school had been attacked, Dumbledore injured, and Harry taken.

"You say you found the map from researching in the library?" Podmore asked, his eyes focused on the neat stack of type-written notes that lined the table. Hermione imagined the papers were the result of George's interview.

"I didn't find it. I made it based on my research. I found mention of the wood in several old folk tales that told of wanderers disappearing and never returning. But modern texts claimed the woods had no enchantments and certainly no magical beasts."

"And the trail itself, you put that together as well?"

"Well, no, not exactly." Hermione paused, knowing her explanation would sound ridiculous. "I got hold of several almanacs from the 1800s that included information regarding the best animal runs through that area and focused on the ones that were to be avoided during certain lunar cycles."

Podmore lifted his quill. "You then extrapolated that these warnings were due to some sort of weakening between the Veil and our reality, hoped that the runs would still be visible based upon the markers you discovered, and then made your map. Is that correct?"

Hermione nodded, her hands busy under the table unraveling the sleeve of her school sweater. "Yes."

"Describe again for me the first. . . _room_ you entered. You said it re-wrote your history." A pair of black-rimmed glasses was removed from Podmore's front pocket, and Hermione was reminded of her own specs, abandoned at the bottom of her trunk.

"I don't remember what it looked like. More of the forest, I suppose, and it was a bit like having a very lucid dream. I knew it wasn't real, but I believed it all the same." She could still feel the echoing certainty of Harry's death, knowing that it was her fault and knowing that she could have prevented it. And now, in reality, Harry might very well be dying and that too would be her fault.

"Mr. Podmore, please, is nothing known about Harry? Nothing at all?"

His quill paused briefly, the black stain from its tip swelling across the paper. "We're not here to discuss Harry Potter. We're here to discuss your. . . _misadventure_." His shoulders hunched forward as he leaned ever closer to his papers, seemingly taking stock in the notes contained there.

"I know, and I know I haven't the right to ask anything, but he's my best friend- he's, he's-" She had no words for what Harry was to her. Closer than friend, dearer than family; he was the ideal, the principle by which she lived her life. Without Harry, she had no purpose, no drive. What was there to succeed for, if not him? "Please, I have to know he's going to be found."

"Mr. Weasley stated that in the second room, the use of magic resulted in seeming animation of the flora-"

"Yes, yes. The grass and branches and leaves and everything tried to suck the life out of us. When George used his wand, the plants became violent where touched. And then we both fell asleep, or unconscious, and I had to drag George out of there. Then we found a pair of chairs, were transported to the next area where some _thing _that wasn't Sirius Black told me that everything- the whole lot it- was a failure and that we were to return home."

Frustration at herself and the situation forced Hermione into a rudeness and tone she never would have adopted otherwise, not with an adult and certainly not with Sturgis Podmore. The roundness to his face and lack of stutter had only been recent acquisitions; the horrors of Azkaban surely haunted him still. "It's kind of you to not blame me, or yell at me, but I'd rather you did. Whatever you need to do so that we can move on to what matters. Harry's gone, and I'll do anything to help find him. Please believe me."

Podmore straightened in his chair, his hand rising with quill in tow to nervously push back at his hair. A smear of the ink stretched over his hairline, tracing the movements of his fingers. He seemed to notice none of it, the gesture a subconscious one. "How old are you now, Miss Granger?"

"I'm sixteen and a half." She avoided his gaze, the vacant awareness in his brown eyes unsettling.

"So very young. . ." he murmured, his hand and quill returning to rest over his papers. "I am twice your age, did you know?" Podmore smiled, an expression filled with a deep unhappiness. "I have lived 33 years and in those years, I've learned few things. I know that I prefer my eggs poached to boiled. Moss makes me sneeze. Car exhaust reminds me of my grandfather. But Miss Granger- Hermione- more certain than I am of these few things is this:

"In wars, small and large, people matter very, very little. Your friend, the Boy-Who-Lived- if he dies, it is a loss, but there are contingencies. There are always other options. He serves as a symbol that Voldemort can be defeated, and while there are special circumstances that make him particularly potent as a weapon, ultimately he is just another sixteen year old, somewhat trained, wizard." His smile remained, the lines twisted into something bitter and resigned. "Hermione, your friend is just as useful to the cause of the Order as a martyr."

Violent refusal seized her. There was simply no way it was true- the Headmaster had always spoken of Harry's importance. Harry had shown himself as such both in his second year when faced with the basilisk and Voldemort's specter. And again during the Triwizard Cup- Harry had faced Voldemort down with nothing but a disarming spell. Of course there was something special about him, more than that scar on his forehead. She refused to believe it, rejected any truth in the words.

"I say this not to convince you of its veracity." Podmore lifted two of his fingers to lightly graze her forehead, the gentlest outline of a cross tracing over her skin. "Whether you agree or not doesn't matter. What matters is that there are some who _do_. And as long as they think that, saving your friend is going to be a lower priority."

"But there's no way- the Weasleys and Mr. Shaklebolt, there's no way they would allow that! And then Remus and Tonks, and, and-" She paused, her hands shaking. "And you, too. You don't believe that- you can't. Harry is _not _expendable."

"I'm too old to believe in anything." His fingers finished their blessing of her skin and found home again on the quill. "I'm not being kind when I don't lecture you. I'm not being generous or understanding. I just don't disagree with what you did, the route you took, or the measures you employed.

"I'm too old to believe in anything, but you are still young enough to care. Don't apologize. You were right."

"But to find Harry, is nothing being done?" Her words came as a plea, whispered and lacking all confidence. Podmore's declarations had shaken her, despite her complete rejection of them. She prided herself on being mature, on handling challenges like an adult, but if this was how adults thought, with such cold calculation and layered reasoning- she would cling to her emotions.

Slowly, Podmore let his lips fold into his smile that was not a smile, and then, returning once more to his hunch over the paper, he carefully dipped his quill into the ink well and began again to write. "Tell me again of the first room. The one where you dreamed."

Hermione watched as his quill continued its slow bleed onto the paper, and felt a deep coldness creep into her. Her question was never answered; surely the Order wouldn't leave Harry behind. Surely.

* * *

**II**

* * *

**THE TOMB WAS** damp. The wet crept through the earth and into the stone, resting thick against his cheek. He'd lost the struggle against lifting his head earlier that morning- at least, he believed it was morning then. Without a sun to mark the time by, Harry had no means to track the hours that had passed since his first awakening in the crypt. He'd been forced to guess, and so when he fell asleep, it was night and when he awoke, it was morning. The only interruptions to the unchanging passing of time were the bowls of tepid stew pushed his way. No one had spoken to him, no one had answered his demands for explanation or entreaties for information.

His captors ignored him completely, their inexplicable silence doing more to terrify him than the unknown future. He had expected interrogations, painful curses, starvation, and then perhaps, once he was completely weakened, a final confrontation in which Voldemort would inevitably kill him. Harry had no illusions regarding his chances of survival. Without a sudden appearance from the Order, coupled with a good deal of luck, Harry felt certain that his death was imminent. It had taken less time than he had imagined to accept this probable truth, and with that acceptance came a welcomed ambivalence.

He ate the offered meals without concern for contained potions or drugs; he made no attempt to escape beyond a few futile tugs on the railings that made up the child-sized door. He'd counted the paces of his cell, pressed his ear to the wall, and except for the wet, found nothing of notice or importance. There was nothing to aid him, nothing to offer hope. He found the lack of opportunity reassuring.

On morning thirteen, Harry decided to plan out his will, regretting that he had never thought to write it down. Unrealistic of him, really, to not have considered the high probability of his death being due to unexpected and unnatural causes. He'd leave the contents of his Gringott's vault to the Weasleys. The money had always been an uncomfortable thing for him; he felt it unearned, and whenever he considered the piles of coins sitting there, under the earth, a spiteful guilt filled him. How could his parents have thought he'd prefer money to memory? Why not a note, or a message, or anything of substance? It depressed him to realize that he was much in their same situation; he too would leave money without a message of explanation.

Ron would get the Firebolt and the rest of his Quidditch items. He knew his friend disliked hand-me-downs, but a Firebolt was hardly something to begrudge. His clothes wouldn't fit Ron; Harry was shorter and slighter, but perhaps, for the sentimental value. . . He'd have wanted to leave a note, something to state clearly, once and for all, how much he appreciated Ron and thought well of him. Something esteem-building and encouraging.

He'd give Hedwig to Ginny. She would like that, he imagined, having something alive and so tangibly connected to him. She would cry, quite a bit, probably lash out at the Order and at her family. Harry winced, the skin of his cheek rubbing raw against the rough stone. She'd probably take it out on Hermione, blame her for taking off at Christmas on her little tryst with George.

The anger was unexpected. He had grown used to the numbness of his internment, but thoughts of Hermione sent his emotions into violent. He would not think of her.

On morning eighteen, Harry began to dream, vivid waking dreams that were more memory than imagination. The month after the winter holiday, with the nightly visits to Dumbledore's pensieve, his every dream was of Volde- _Riddle's _youth. And now again, those memories re-visited him. Staunch darkness with flashes of a diary weeping blood, a blackened hand clutching a ring, a locket encased in rust and ruin, a cup, a diadem, a forked tongue that hissed promises of ambition, and at the long line of it, past the fantasy mirrors that mocked him with their broken pieces and fractured reflections, there was only ever himself, forehead bare and scar vibrant.

He saw himself as surely Riddle saw Harry: a thin boy, pale and unkempt, weak and sniveling. But with a scar that never let Riddle forget, never let him ignore the truth of his own fatal weakness. _"If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love." _But Harry could not understand himself how or why Dumbledore would have such faith in love's superiority to all the power and all the years of planning Riddle had undertaken. How was Dumbledore so sure?

The dreams took a new shape, the stone walls of Harry's tomb morphing into an underground cavern, with stagnant water that lapped at his ankles and whose dark depths held unseeing eyes and molten hands. He had left Dumbledore there in the tower, weakened by the poison Harry had forced him to drink, barely coherent; he had left Dumbledore and had run- it didn't matter that Dumbledore had told him to, it didn't matter that the school was being attacked or that he had been overtaken in the forest. None of that mattered.

The whole ruse had worked; a seeming attack on the school had forced him outside and when the half-hearted bombardment had finished, Hogwarts had stood untouched and Harry taken.

In the end, none of Harry's love had helped at all. He had only his tomb and its four walls. He had nothing, truly, but a thin hope that whatever Voldemort- _Riddle_- had planned for him would happen soon. Anything to end the unending wait.

On day twenty-two, the silence changed. He hardly noticed the sound at first, the complete silence of the tomb having deafened his ears to other all sounds days earlier. He thought it perhaps his finger at first; the digits had made a habit of scraping at the ground, worrying into the fine gravel that was once smooth grout. But the sound came too sporadically, the brief squeaks something not of his making. He stayed pressed to the ground, his ear flat to the surface and with a greater effort than anything he'd tried for weeks, he listened.

There, and then there again. A third and then a fourth. A half dozen more and he was sure of it. Somewhere in his prison was a mouse. Harry searched the four walls of his cell, unmoving from the ground and wondering when had the walls become quite so comforting and familiar; his gaze caught on crack near the corner by the door. Yes, it was large enough for a mouse to squeeze through. Silently, so as to not call attention from the silent, unknown guards who surely kept watch beyond his door, Harry smeared a dab of the rice mixture given to him at lunch by the crack. For hours, he waited, his breath slowed to the soft ease of sleep.

A pink nose slipped through first, the organ sniffing carefully at the air, and then a paw. A second paw and then the head, a tiny white head streaked with dirt. Its stomach was swelled with the probable spoils from an upper level, and yet it searched for the rice Harry had left for it. The mouse found its prize soon enough, and while watching it scratch and sniff, its tiny paw stubborn in its search for yet more food, Harry felt the tears trickle down his cheeks. He couldn't place the emotion at first, it felt so foreign and so very different from the dense lack of feeling he'd imposed since his internment.

And then the mouse squeaked again, and stuffed itself back through the crack, its pink tail slithering behind it. He knew then what it was that forced the tears. Such unbridled happiness to have realized that he was not alone in his prison, in this tomb- he was not alone. And he was so desperately glad for it.

On day twenty-seven, the mouse took food from Harry's hand.

On day twenty-eight, the mouse let Harry hold him.

And on day twenty-nine, when the mouse began to draw in the fine silt that layered the tomb's floor, Harry began to hope. He recognized the shape, the lines, so similar to the papers that had spilled from Hermione's satchel in the library, that night before Christmas when she had smiled and lied to his face. The name for the rune came to him, slowly, and whispered in her voice. Harry picked up the mouse and cradled it to his chest; he would not leave it behind.

With his hand pressed to the ground, he spoke for the first time in weeks. "_Uruz_."

The tomb trembled and then, with a great sigh, the stone began to separate, inching excruciatingly to reform before him, the glaring brightness of midday light blinding him completely. Without pausing to consider, and with no backward glances to the voices that rose up in alarm or the spells that shot his way, Harry stepped into the light, held the mouse tightly, and focused.

The crack of his disapparation left the stones aching.

* * *

**III**

* * *

**IT WAS A** week before genuine recrimination came, and the source left Hermione entirely unprepared. She had braced for something more from Ron beyond the genuine thankfulness he had shown at her return, and surely Ginny would hold to her fault in some way. Both were undeservedly kind, with a braced politeness that spoke to greater concerns- concerns that she was no longer to be trusted to share with. There was no cruelty in their avoidance of her, merely a finality of acceptance.

Her apologies for having made them worry had been verbally accepted, but nothing in Ron's actions or Ginny's words spoke to having cared about it. Hermione wanted to blame the ambivalence on worry over Harry, but neither would speak to her, not really, and she was left adrift with doubt.

She never thought to consider whether her roommates would expect an apology as well, and so when she was cornered in her room a week after her return, she had no chance to steady a defense.

"You selfish cow." Lavender Brown flung her words from across the sixth years girls' room. "You horrid, arrogant swot. What did you think would happen if you just up and disappeared on some ridiculous lark? And with a _boy_. Hermione Granger on a tryst with a drop-out. How perfect."

The attack left Hermione reeling, so unexpected was the source. She stood, her blouse only half-way buttoned, as Lavender marched across the space separating them to plant herself by the door, effectively blocking the exit. The slender blonde sneered, her expression a perfection of disdain and revulsion. Hermione struggled with the remaining buttons, her fingers clumsy.

"You should have seen how worked up you had the whole house with your escapade. Harry and Ronald scurrying about, begging for one of us to bring down your papers and dig through your trunk. Harry even had his little girlfriend rifling through your notes, not caring at all that every second of it made her miserable. Proud of yourself, I'll bet you are." Lavender shrugged off the remonstrating hand Parvati attempted to place on her shoulder.

"Lav, maybe you should lay off." Parvati's dark eyes shifted nervously. "This really isn't the time-"

"Oh shut it. You feel the same way. High and ever-so-mighty Hermione Granger, always too good for the likes of lowly us, has finally fallen from her pedestal of perfection." Sincere hurt seemed to layer Lavender's words, and Hermione could only wonder at it.

"I am sorry, Lavender," she tried to say, but the other girl scoffed.

"You really don't get it, though, do you? I mean, every one here trusted you, and you just took off!" Lavender crossed her arms. "We all thought you had been attacked, or killed, or kidnapped- something truly horrible. And then you saunter in, untouched, and we all find out you've been cavorting with one of the lesser Weasleys!"

A twinge of annoyance flickered behind the comfortable guilt Hermione had been wallowing in. She knew the actual reason behind her absence couldn't be shared with the school, but she would have preferred a better cover story than love nest with George Weasley. "I made a bad decision, Lavender, a foolish one, and it was wrong of me. I didn't mean to worry you-"

"Just a moment." Lavender's lips curled in incredulity, and beside her, Parvati noticeably cringed. "Did you think _I _was worried? Hardly. It was rather nice not having you bothering about, acting so above us all and then toying about with Ronald's feelings. No, I was not the one worried."

"Lav, you don't quite mean that." Parvati gestured to the room and attempted to qualify, "What she really means, Hermione, is that there were some who were _more _worried than others. Like. . ." she hesitated, jaw clenching nervously, "Like Ron."

It made sense, Hermione supposed in a brilliant second of revelation, then that Lavender should be so vociferous in her condemnation. Lavender was in love- she mentally paused- or a deep _like_ with their mutual house mate. And Ron's obvious care for Hermione had translated into some sort of perceived rejection. Even in her absence, she had caused discord in her room. The tension that had existed during the past year between herself and the allied forces of Lavender and Parvati made sudden and complete sense. She had thought they just didn't like her, but that she had been considered a threat? A threat to the likes of Lavender Brown in the arena of female prowess?

It was laughable. Hermione had no illusions regarding her attractiveness; Lavender would win that battle every time.

But she could understand, a little, why Lavender might feel otherwise. Ron wasn't terribly observant in the best of circumstances and to expect him to catch onto the fine nuances of the female psyche when distracted by other events- misunderstanding was bound to happen. "He doesn't care for me like that. I mean, he might have thought so, once upon a time, but it's not real. It was just passing. I'm someone. . ."

Hermione broke off, unsure of how to explain. Lavender attempted disinterest, but her feet still bent forward, her toes compressed into the thick rug underneath. "I'm someone comfortable and familiar. I'm the easy choice."

"I told you, Lav, I told you this over and over! Hermione's always been around, is all. It could have been anyone." Hermione tried to ingore the ease with which Parvati dismissed her. "You shouldn't be discouraged."

"I'm not mad about that," Lavender insisted, her voice nevertheless far less sharp than its earlier intonation. "I dislike irresponsible people."

_Irresponsible_. The word stung in a way the others hadn't. "I'm not irresponsible," she responded reflexively. It was one thing to be chastised due to some misplaced sense of jealousy, but her reasons had been pure. She had lied to her parents and friends and school not for herself, but because she thought she could help. "You don't know the details of what I did, or why I left, so maybe before you render judgment, you might take pause and reconsider, _Lav_."

The blonde opened her mouth to respond, but an unknown fury that had been residing in Hermione's breast had opened and now she could finally give vent. "You know what, don't. Whatever you're about to say, save it. I don't care about your opinion. I don't care if you're in love with Ron or Michael Corner or whoever else. On my list of priorities, you rank exceptionally low. You really want to know why I took off?"

She did not wait for an answer, her eyes having grown wet with frustrated tears and an unknown grief. "I wanted to help Harry. I thought, if I went on this trip, I would find something that would help him- make him realize he wasn't alone. I worked with George Weasley for months on this, wanting only. . . We only wanted-"

The word broke in her mouth. _"I wanted to help." _How often had she claimed this reason in her life to excuse whatever misdeed or mistake she had made? How many times had she hidden behind that reason to duck from responsibility or blame? She was just as Lavender called her: irresponsible, selfish, and ultimately- the tears thickened and she crumbled to the ground, unable to stall the torrent that ripped in her chest- a failure.

The straw man was wrong; Harry needed more than her. What good had she ever done, really, except to have had good intentions gone awry?

"Hermione, you don't need to _cry_. I didn't mean for you to get so upset- Oh god, Parvati, what do I do?" Lavender's distressed voice sounded far away, and Hermione refused the hesitant hand that touched her shoulder. She didn't want to be comforted, she didn't want to be consoled. It was right that she should feel this way.

She was guilty, after all, wasn't she? Sturgis Podmore might have refused to say it. Ron might not want to blame her. The staff and the Order- they might all have decided that she needn't take responsibility, but Hermione didn't need someone to say it to know. She _knew_. Had she not left, had she been at Hogwarts, Harry would not have run outside. She could have made him stay.

It was her fault entirely, and nothing anyone _didn't_ say would make her believe otherwise.

She felt someone crouch down beside her, and again, a hand attempted to give her comfort. She lifted her head, wanting to voice her want to be alone, and then stopped. Brown eyes, framed by red hair the color of a dying sunset, stared down at her. Ginny smiled, the expression unforced and miserable. "It was never your fault, Hermione. It was mine. I didn't stop him- he left, and I could have stopped him, but I didn't."

The younger girl fell in beside Hermione, lips trembling. "The attack had just started and the walls were shaking. We were all directed in the Great Hall, but Ron couldn't find Harry, and so the three of us- Neville came, too- we went to find him. Took the passage by the kitchens. He was running down from the Headmaster's tower when we found him. Oh Hermione," Ginny's voice cracked, her eyes distant as she revisited the memory. "He was so pale and his face was streaked with blood. He said he was going to get help, he said that Dumbledore was hurt and that we should stay with him. He said-"

Hermione felt her own tears lessen as Ginny began to sob. Both Lavender and Parvati fluttered down to join them, the four girls forming a misshapen circle of support on the floor. Between her soft cries, Ginny continued, trying to explain. "But he was lying, Hermione, he was lying. He was lying and I knew it, but I didn't want to fight again, and so I let him go. And he was captured, and he could be dead-"

Hermione bit down on her lip, steeling her emotions with the painful bite. Guilt was sticky in its hold, selfish and all-consuming. She should have seen past her own guilt to the real reason her friends were avoiding her. It wasn't anger or disappointment, it was-

She inhaled sharply.

"He's going to be okay, Ginny. He'll come back to us, somehow. I promise." Her declaration had no substance, no plans or research or books waiting to be read standing behind it. She said it, knowing it could be a lie, and yet willfully believing, it all the same. "I promise, he'll be okay."

* * *

**IV**

* * *

**THE STAINED GLASS** coated the floor in a kaleidoscope of fractured light. George stood beneath it, reveling in how his shadow faded in comparison, and waited. He had revised the note for over a day before finally sending it, having decided that nothing could be done for it. He needed to see her, at least one more time before distance and lack of commonalities separated them into mere acquaintances. He held no notions otherwise; it was inevitable, the two of them. They shared no hobbies or interests and beyond the tenuous claim of housemates, there was nothing to tie him to her, or her to him.

But George wasn't ready yet to step back from the spotlight. He needed to explain; he needed to make her understand that to him, she wasn't just-

"George?" Her voice called out from the back, near the tunnel that led into the school. "Is something the matter? You sounded upset in your note." She stepped out from the gloom and into the shared light, the rainbow of colors painting her cheeks in such a way that his breath caught, and he could only stare.

Hermione stumbled under his scrutiny, noticeably blushing. "What? I bet it was that root, I got caught-" She pushed at her hair, grimacing as her fingers caught in the tangle. "I suppose I had time to consider a mirror before coming, didn't I?"

George looked away. "How was the interview with Sturgis? He's a bit odd, that one."

The non sequitor seemed to throw her for a second, but she eased into the topic. He unsuccessfully attempted to quash the pleasure it gave him to see her so used to his mannerisms. "It was _long_. He seemed particularly interested in the levels of the Veil, specially the first room with all the. . .um, memories."

Her teeth caught on the words, her fingers unconsciously rising to linger near her lips. "I don't think he was there strictly on Order business, though. The things he said weren't the sorts of things adults tell us. Well," she paused, glancing sidelong to where he leaned against the wall. "Tell me, at least. You're one of them now, after all."

"An Order member? I have my doubts if they''ll let that stand now."

She shook her head, fingers returning to her sides. "I meant an adult. You're grown up now, George." Something in her tone forced him to pay attention, to straighten and step forward.

"You're not exactly a child yourself," he pointed out, no real faith in his words, but needing to fill the space with some measure of conversation. That vague want that had bothered and poked at him throughout their journey in the woods- that vague want that had grown into a deep compulsion once in the Veil; it stirred again. It had forced the note onto him, forced him into an action that he had promised wouldn't ever reach fruition.

She smiled, a quick flash of teeth, and her nose wrinkled slightly as she laughed behind it. "No, I'm not a child." Her humor vanished, her lips returning to their normal somber lines. "It seems I grew up a very long time ago."

"Hermione-" George wished he had the sort of easy talent that came to others to charm, to distract. His usual dependables required a fake wand and a box of trick candy.

"This is why you're good to be around, you know. You make me feel less old." She laughed again, the sound wistful. "I wish we had become friends sooner."

He tried to imagine what might have changed in his life if at some point he had paused two seconds and considered talking to Hermione Granger about something other than passing the salt or moving her books. She had spent time in his home over vacations, sat all of four seats away from him for three meals a day for almost five years, and who knew how many countless nights he spent playing exploding snap at her feet in the common room. What might have changed had he considered her as someone other than his brother's friend, as someone with a face and a name? Perhaps, that night during the Yule Ball, he might have spoken to her then, begged a dance. Perhaps, then, he might have had more reason to claim her attention now.

More reason to hope.

"I'm glad you asked me here actually." She tucked a piece of her wayward hair behind an ear, frowning as it fell free immediately. "I'm worried about Ron. He's not taking any of this well at all, and I'm-" She broke off, her expression growing puzzled. "What's wrong? Why do you look like that?"

Quickly, George tried to restore his features to something neutral, anything to hide the well of anger his brother's name unearthed. "I'm fine. Go on, you're worried about Ronnikin's little _feelings_."

She frowned, plainly annoyed. "I'm being serious, George- and it does no good calling him that. I'll never understand why you all feel the need to be mean to each other all the time."

"'You all?' Grouping my family into a solid unit now, are you? Bunch of poor gingers, why should they need names?" he said, doing nothing to hide the bitterness in his tone.

"Don't be obtuse." Hermione pushed her way past his shoulder and grabbed for her bag on the floor. "I didn't come here to have you lash out at me. You're being unfair. I only meant that I don't understand why you siblings always pick on each other. And that's not even the point. Ron's really upset, to the point that I don't even know what to say-"

He caught her hand between his before he could realize that his feet had propelled him forward, blocking her from the exit. Her bag clattered to the ground, the sound grounding him to the present. She stared up at him, her eyes heavy with surprise, confusion, and some other unnamed thing that left him both wretched and hopeful. "I don't want to talk about my brother."

She nodded slowly, and with greater gentleness than he thought himself capable, he brought her hand to his lips, relishing the soft feel of her skin against his own. "In the Veil, I had wanted to do something. Something that had been lingering and bothering at me for weeks. From the moment I told you about the Book of Records and my idea- from the moment you didn't laugh or turn me away."

She continued to stare up at him, her lips parted and silent. Faintly, he felt the cautious touch of her hand near his throat, her fingers tracing lightly over his jaw, exploring and sending his nerves aflame. It was she who lifted her feet, bracing atop her toes, and through eyelashes thick and clouded, watched as she kissed him.

His eyes closed, his hands moving to angle closer to her lips, tasting and drinking from her, blissful in the softness that moved against him. Her hair, thick and supple between his hands, filled the air with the faint scent of soap and earth, and all that was Hermione. She murmured against him, her mouth falling to his throat and speaking unintelligible words.

"Hermione, Hermione," he whispered, unsure of what to tell her, what to admit to. She pulled back far enough to see clearly, lips red and hair mussed. Oh she was fine, more than fine and grand and all those fair words he felt she deserved. She was. . . and he was—

"_Hermione_, you have to know-"

She smiled, slowly and widely, unabashed happiness transforming her familiar features into something beautifully new to him. George felt it then, that deep nervousness he had felt when he woke beside her in the Veil, after leaving behind the nightmares. Her breath had moved shallowly then, her cheeks damp with tears, and her hand clutching desperately at his. He had watched her then, refusing to name the torrent of feeling that pitted in his stomach.

He felt dizzy and glad and, in that moment both then and now, he knew that he-

The ground shook and with it the shack, the walls teetering down dust and splinters from overhead. The faint sounds of an explosion followed behind it. The wide smile vanished, Hermione's eyes clouding over in plain horror as she pointed beyond him. "Oh god, George, oh no. . ."

The cracked window, stained with dirt and greyed with age, tore the beyond in an uneven half, but past it, the rising smoke was unavoidable and its source undeniable. Another explosion vibrated up through the earth; the sky filled with a burst of color and flame. This was no false rush at the defenses; this was the real thing.

Wordlessly, George took Hermione's hand. Hogwarts was under attack.

* * *

_even the trees listen_

**ELEVEN**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**


	12. TWELVE

**_Disclaimer: _**_I own nothing of this._

**_A/N: _**_Only the epilogue left after this. I'll have a longer author's note at that time explaining what I have planned afterward. To all that that stuck along during these past six- holy jesus god, wow- years, thank you. I'm so glad to have finally reached this point with this story__._

* * *

**Difference Always Matters**

_by:_

_carpetfibers_

_a.k.a_

_s. stewart_

* * *

**TWELVE**

_half empty_

* * *

**I**

**THERE WAS NO** warning. No sudden clanging or drumming or gentle bustle of smoke to hint at what was descending through the castle. The common room roared with its typical noise and energy, as it would on any other non-Hogsmeade Saturday. Finals were still distant enough to allow a procrastination that translated into loud games of exploding snap, a betting game involving smuggled bottles of butterbeer, and a raucous debate over the legitimacy of the monarchy- the latter most conversation having devolved into a shouting match and sparking wands. Neville attempted to avoid the cluttered groups as he crossed through the Fat Lady's entrance and toward the boys' stair, the real test being to not get entangled in the actual activities.

He lingered for a second near the fireplace, where the lone figure of silence curled up near the open flame, the orange light shadowing her angled features into long lines that forced a heaviness to his chest that almost made him open his lips to speak. But Ginny's solitude was absolute, her small space of quiet a deftly placed turret of defense. Neville watched her, his own posture awkwardly bent and the books in his arms haphazardly gripped. He knew where her thoughts traveled, why her lips, a rosebud- the fragrant tips of a _leonidas_- wilted downwards. He knew where her gaze searched when facing the flames.

It was the only thing she thought of, and in a dark, deep and selfish part of his heart, Neville held a hope that wherever Harry was, he stayed there longer. Oh safe and unhurt, surely, but far away, so that perhaps, one day, Ginny Weasley might look up from that fireplace and see what stood beyond. _Who _stood beyond, always waiting.

"Neville? What're you doing there?" Her voice came so unexpectedly that the books slipped from his tenuous grasp, the abrupt crash drawing a second of interruption from the room's din. A vague mutter of _"Just Longbottom again"_ caused a brief titter of laughter, and then all resumed their conversation, attentions drawn elsewhere. Except for Ginny, who stood and stretched slightly before reaching to help with the dropped books.

"It's mean of them to just laugh like that," she said lowly, voice irritated. "You'd think they'd help instead."

"It's all right." He tried not to blush, all too aware of how his complexion turned when darkened in a flush. "Thanks, though, G-Ginny."

She brightened, seemingly pleased by something unknown to him. "Did you need something then- you were staring."

He tried again to resist the rush of blood that flooded his cheeks- unsuccessfully. "Yeah, sorry about that. You looked far away."

"Ah, well," she bent her head, her fingers fluttering near her waist. "Just thinking about this and that."

Neville hesitated for a moment, questioning the wisdom of opening his mouth further. Still, the way she stood spoke of a need, and if all he could ever do for her was sit and listen, then he would do that fully. "Did you want to talk about it?"

Her laugh was short, and sad, but sincere, and his heart twisted from the sound. It wasn't right that she should sound like that- that she sound so very worn and defeated. Not when she was as brave as he knew her to be, as beautiful and brilliant and like a vast firework that shot across a darkened sky. She was lightning in a bottle, and he wished she was more aware of it. That the world existed as such as to convince her of it. Perhaps, if he had the voice to tell her, he might. One day.

"I think I'm done talking it out, really. What I could honestly go for is a good fly." Her gaze turned to one of the lancets that lined the curved tower. "The pitch is reserved for Ravenclaw practice today. Unfortunately."

He stared, his depression mirroring her own, until an idea sparked. He couldn't help the grin that filled his features, unaware completely of the way the expression took his boyish wistfulness and transformed it into something older and kinder, hinting at future handsomeness. "I have just the thing then." He mistook the sudden color on her cheeks for remnants from the flame's heat when he grasped her hand and tugged her back through the common room and out into the main hall.

Neville did not become conscious of the warmth of her fingers between his own until he had them standing in front of the blank expanse of wall that he knew to hide the entrance to whatever they required. Still, he relished the delicate feel of her skin against his own, as awkward as he knew his hand to be- far too clumsy for potions' ingredients but made for the hardiness of soil and plant. The door materialized as he completed the third pacing, and still heady from both her hand and the pleasure he knew his idea would give her, pushed Ginny through the doorway.

The pitch was certainly not comparable to the one on the grounds, but it would do for now he decided. "If you can't get the Ginny to the pitch, take the pitch to the Ginny," he announced, obviously pleased. "I'm sure we have brooms here somewhere. . . ah, here we go! My aim's pretty terrible, but I can catch fine enough if you want to practice at all. . ." Neville trailed off, realizing that he had heard none of the positive responses he had been expecting. Instead, there was only the unmistakable sound of first one sniffle and then another.

Hurriedly, he dropped the broom he'd found and returned back to the entrance where Ginny stood, holding her elbows tightly. "What's wrong? I'm sorry, I know it's not very big, but you said you wanted to fly, so I thought at least, this way, you could a little. Was I wrong? I'm sorry-"

"Neville, _stop_." She wiped at her eyes angrily, audibly inhaling. "You didn't do anything wrong at all- this is probably the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time. And that's not right, is it?"

Neville didn't know what to say, and so, as was his typical way, stayed silent and tried not to pull on his thumb too hard. "What I mean is that, before Harry was taken, he was my boyfriend- oh god, I mean, _is_ my boyfriend. _Is_. How could I even say it like that?" She exhaled stiffly, a sob trapped in the sound. "But he never would have thought of this. And I know he's going to come back, he's going to be safe and sound and back at Hogwarts and with me, but create a pitch for me to fly in just because I'm unhappy?" She shook her head. "It's so selfish of me to admit, and I know it's ugly to say, but he wouldn't think of this."

"I'm sure that's not right-" But she interrupted him, her tight smile unexpectedly arresting.

"It's okay, Neville. I mean, if you can do this for me, and we're just _friends-_" The word stabbed him. "- then surely my boyfriend should be able to do the same. But oh god, Neville, I'm horrid, aren't I?"

No, he disagreed silent. Ginny Weasley was not horrid or anything ugly. She was just like the roses his grandmother grew, brittle stalks of thorn and green until weather and temperature and rain and sun all united in glorious balance, giving birth to bursts of supple beauty, delicate and dangerous and perfumed with promises of future flashes of greatness. Ginny Weasley was all things green to him, and he only wished he could tell her, wished he had one brief second of grandiose bravery to admit to all the things he thought of her.

"I do wish I was kind, like you, but kindness eludes me. I know I'm greedy, but it can't always be bad, can it?" Her tone was rhetorical, but- She had that tone again, that expression of such loneliness that he had to answer.

Slowly, his hands trembling and his ears burnt red from the burst of nervousness that threatened to mute him, he took her fingers tenderly between his own. "I think you're wonderful."

Her lips fell into an 'o' of surprise, and he felt her fingers flex once and then twice. "Neville-"

"Please don't interrupt, because I don't know that I'll ever feel brave enough to say this again, but G-Ginny." He took a deep breath. "Ginny, I've always thought you're wonderful. To me, you are everyth-"

The stone moved underfoot milliseconds before the first assault on the castle wards cut through and reverberated past his ears. It took precious milliseconds more before he realized what the sound meant. Ginny met his eyes. "We're under attack," she whispered.

"And this feels like it's for real," he confirmed grimly, her fingers tightening between his. The walls shook a second time and already he could hear the telltale sounds of battle.

Time disappeared from him, his actions and words feeling as if coming from a far distant place. And yet, it only took a brief twenty minutes to have the Room of Requirement transformed into a highly defensible bunker. Ginny managed the organizing of those prefects she could gather, who in turn where escorting the younger students through back passages in to the room. A cacophony of fighting from the upper levels sifted down through the stone, and with each tremble of the walls, Neville knew the wards were weakening. He had a vague recollection of having heard Hermione once explain the relationship between the castle wards and the headmaster, but all he could remember from it was that with Dumbledore in a coma, the wards were more vulnerable than normal. Even acting in his stead, McGonagall was but a stop-gap for the real thing.

He took point for the next group of students, a half dozen second years found in the library and led by a dazed Philip Blagdon. Keeping his voice low, he queried the fourth year Hufflepuff. "How bad is it?"

"It was one of 'em Slytherins, something to do with a vanishing cabinet- that's all Professor Flitwick would tell me before 'e ran off." Philip tone spoke to his shock, his non-wand hand still curled tightly around a book.

A Slytherin? Neville didn't need to think long to guess which such Slytherin it might be. "_Malfoy_."

Philip nodded blankly. "Maybe. But Zabini said to stay to the lower levels-"

"Zabini?" Neville interrupted. There had been no sign of either the headboy or headgirl, and he hadn't given a thought to the Slytherin prefects. "Where did you see him?"

"Outside the library. He was bleeding badly from the forehead, but he stunned one of 'em-" Philip's voice fell to a horrified hush. "-them _Death Eaters _near dead. It looked something awful."

Neville nodded and then made the quick triple passing that was required for the Room's door to appear. "You did good, Philip," he said as he ushered the lot in through the passage, wand and gaze focused on the hallway. So far their entire section of the castle had been safe from the fighting underway. Ginny appeared behind him, another rag-tag group of students following from the west. At least two were obviously injured, and one, a first year, was clutching the very stiff body of a kitten, most likely a byproduct of a hex having gone awry.

"It's getting worse," she told him. "And there's still at least half the school still unaccounted for. Not to mention, I still can't find Hermione or Ron anywhere."

The two's absence was growing increasingly obvious as more and more of the former DA members had gathered in the past hour. Neville had attempted to use the coins to signal a meeting point but had flubbed the charm; Ginny's attempt was more successful, but had only resulted in warming the galleons. It was enough, though, and he knew for a fact that Hermione always kept hers on a chain around her neck. There was no reason for her to have not come, unless-

Resolutely, Neville shook his head. He wouldn't consider that. And Ron was most likely with her. Wherever they were, they could take care of themselves. "We need to get to the dungeons," he said a minute later, once he had been joined by several other of the self-appointed leaders, including Luna Lovegood and Ernie Macmillan. Immediate argument flared up, but Ginny fixed a glare that had the objections silenced. "It's bad down there, one of the fourth years saw Blaise Zabini. He'd been injured. There are some bad seeds, yes, but I need volunteers to join me to see what can be done to help those who _aren't_."

He was unsurprised when all five agreed; he hesitated before leaving right away, pulling Ginny back briefly. "I think you should stay." She bristled immediately, which he couldn't help but smile at, the reaction so typical and right for her. She stilled, her lips turning grave. "Not because you'll be safer, but because they need you here."

"I can help," she whispered fiercely.

"Then stay and protect them." And throwing all other caution and hesitation to the wind, Neville stooped down the seven inches needed to reach her lips and kissed her, the touch ever so brief and barely qualifying for the term. But he felt the tremor of her lips against his for that slight second of touch, and it was with exaltation and adrenaline that he turned and left, not daring chance a glance behind. He knew rejection would come, once it was all over- whatever it _all _was- but until then, he would play at being hero and enjoy having had the girl.

* * *

**II**

* * *

**HE HAD NO** wand. He had no weapons or plans. He had nothing but the stinking and threadbare robes on his back. His sneakers reeked of a day's march through a strangely silent forest, all of the various creatures and plants that served to make it forbidden having vanished from sight and sound. Harry had walked without stopping, his energy having tapped into some hidden pool that forced him forward. He knew that he had to hurry; he knew that he had to get there, to Hogwarts before- before _it_ happened. The pale white mouse remained quiet throughout the journey, its tiny warmth throbbing from within Harry's hands, traveling through his arms and to his cheeks and finally settling in his chest.

Harry had no explanation for what had happened in his cell, his tomb. Had he hallucinated the entire thing? This mouse was no animagus; it was only a mouse, and yet, he was sure. Ever so completely _sure_ that it had drawn the rune for him: _Uruz_, the rune for endurance and manifestation, an indicator of independence and freedom. And when translated through the dust on the ground of his tomb, it had meant an escape. A manifestation of freedom for him- of independence. Harry knew he had no knowledge of such a thing; no conscious knowledge surely. Yet-

The mouse nibbled gently on his finger, and Harry provided another small piece of rice from his pocket to it.

The rune was just another unknown piece of this unknown puzzle that was drawing him toward Hogwarts like a magnet toward north. He knew that it was desperately important that he arrive in time- in time for what, he did not know- but just that he get there. His mind was buzzing with an answer that he could not reach, his blood strumming with a certainty that he could not grasp. His skin _throbbed_ with the whole of it. He had no awareness of the pain that surely stung from his feet, the soles of his sneakers having worn themselves into nothingness. The branches and limbs that knotted in his hair or struck his cheeks left red streaks of wounded skin, and thick lines of dark blood swelled with each strike.

He felt none of it.

There was no time.

* * *

**III**

* * *

**CONSCIOUSNESS CAME****TO** him painfully, and Ron resisted the surge of awareness desperately. From his right shoulder came ripping gasps of knife-sharp jabs, each tiny movement an agony of violence. From his left arm came nothing, and that blissful absence of feeling terrified him enough into drifting past the cloudy gathering of his thoughts and into reality. Hearing was the first of the senses to reach him after touch.

"- still crying little Draco? Not so tough without your big, bad _daddy _around, are you?"

"Shut up!"

"I didn't think you'd manage it on your first try. Even if your target was a Weasley. Just thought you'd like the practice. You have to _really _mean it, you know, to get the curse just right. You have to hate, and _mean_ it. But you can't manage even that, can you?" The laughter that followed was equal parts desperate and miserable. "You don't know yet what it means to have that feeling, to know with every fiber of your being that you wish a person dead. But I do."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up-"

The words stopped abruptly, interrupted by the sound of solid force meeting brittle bone. Ron's head ached, memory returning to him in fleeting bursts. _Detention with Slughorn. Scrubbing cauldrons. A snap of the doorway. A loud shout. His wand broken in two. A searing brilliance of pain on his back, and then blackness._ His eyes flew open.

"What perfect timing. How kind of you to join us, Ronald. I had hoped to meet with you again, if only for old time's sake." The silver arm sparkled in the gloom of the dungeon classroom, its owner grinning manically above it. Peter Pettigrew crouched down beside him, using one silver digit to prod painfully at Ron's shoulder. "You were asleep an awfully long time, Ronald."

Ron's gaze flicked past him briefly, to the prone pale body across the room. Malfoy's eyes stared vacantly, the only movement proving life being a slight twitching in his hands. "Still looking as ratty as ever, Wormtail."

The wizard flinched noticeably, straightening as he backed up. "Don't use that name. Don't use that name!"

"Why? It remind you of the friends you betrayed, the people you killed?" Ron struggled to pull himself from the floor, the pain blinding him briefly. He fought to not lose consciousness again and then leaned back against the wall, gasping. "What's it like, giving up your friends and family so you can lick at some snake-thing's feet?"

"You wouldn't understand. Friends? They weren't friends- I was a convenience! A token goblin so that they could have some place to hang their insults and superiority on. They were not _friends_." Pettigrew laughed again, the sound becoming a sob. "Never friends. What I have now is better than friendship or those thin things you so desperately cling to."

"No, you're wrong- you had people who cared about you. You had people willing to die for you- and now what do you have?" Ron hurried to finish, struggling to ignore silver palm that now pressed dangerously against his throat. "You have people willing to sacrifice you. Willing to betray you." The hand trembled against his skin; Ron inhaled deeply. The words came to him, the truth one that he knew as deeply and truly as he did his family and name. "You destroyed your chance to ever have anyone ever love you again. And you'll lose because of that. V-Voldemort will lose because of that." The name stumbled on his lips, the terror all the more real.

"You lie! You _lie_." Pettigrew drew back his hand, eyes empty from all feeling. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You know nothing. Love is nothing in the face of power, true power."

Ron knew what spell was readying behind the silver hand, what words were poised at Pettigrew's lips. He faced the truth of it directly, mouth trembling. Slowly, he smiled and closed his eyes, the pain in his shoulder disappearing as a deep calm settled over him. Pettigrew was wrong. "Harry will win, and then you'll face them- everyone you ever betrayed or murdered. And then, after all of that, you'll be alone. Alone and unlov-"

"_Avada kedavra!_"

He was twelve again. The end of his first year. Supper was corn beef, with heaping piles of buttered potatoes, the heat wafting in clouds of scent and expectation across the table. His plate was filled once and then twice, each bite reminding him of home and family. But he felt nothing of homesickness. To his right sat his best friend, the boy-who-lived, the boy who had saved the whole of the wizarding world when only a toddler. The boy Ron had saved himself with only a knight and a pawn. The boy he would time and time again help be the hero he was born to be. The boy he would lay his life down for. The boy he called his brother and family. To his left sat another, the girl who had known nothing of spells or magic a year earlier. The girl who had spent half the year crying in the bathroom. The girl who had lied for him and let him cheat off her homework. The girl he would someday see in blue dress robes, with hair twisted high across her crown, her throat naked to his eyes. The girl he would someday realize was more than a best friend, more than a class mate- so much more than all these things. _Hermione_-

A searing heat trailed by a rush of chilled wind touched him, the sensations a tender caress. A crash thundered in his ears, the sound of wood on flesh. He sighed, exhaled once, and then felt nothing. All was dark.

* * *

**IV**

* * *

**IT TOOK TOO** long to reach the castle, minutes and seconds of time wasted by the long passage and fighting past the soil and brush that struck out as if to stop her. Hermione heard nothing of what George said to her, his words vanishing into a white noise of non-necessity. Her lips were still bruised, her blood still rushed from the thrill of his hand on her cheeks and mouth on her throat. And violently, she pushed forward, unable to forgive herself for yet again being absent when she might be needed.

For playing truant with George Weasley when her friends might be in danger.

The passage ended abruptly, and she nearly killed them both when she knocked the knot on the Whomping Willow's trunk with too much force. George pulled her out of the way of one sweeping branch, and then rolled them both halfway down the hillside to escape two others. They landed in a tangle of limbs and hair, Hermione opening her eyes from their defensive wince to find her face entirely too near to his. Forcefully, she pulled herself free and readied her wand.

The late evening air was entirely too still, the earlier clamor of the attack on the castle wards having silenced in an unnatural quiet. Either the fighting was still being contained to the inside, or the school had- She tightened her jaw. No, the school would not fall so easily. First, she had to get into Hogwarts, find the rest of the DA, and then work out what was happening. Then she could do what she did best: make a plan. "Do you know a way inside- a not obvious way that is?"

George frowned, considering. His cheek was smudged with dirt from the tunnel, and Hermione felt a distant desire to touch the skin there, to smooth away the soil and brush back the lock of pale red hair that fell across his forehead. The sudden appearance of a smile, crooked and mulish in tone, forced tears to her eyes. "You happen to be speaking to an expert at secret entrances."

The stagnant air was broken by a tidal wave of expelled magic and sound, Hermione's ears left ringing and her head spinning. When the world righted itself, she looked upward, to the northern tower. The Dark Mark hung over the headmaster's tower. She inhaled sharply, dizzy and overwhelmed with the knowledge that above all else, she had to the get to the tower. Before-

Before-

She did not know. "Do you know of one that'll get us to the tower?"

"Yes."

* * *

**V**

* * *

**HE FOUND ZABINI **first, crumpled in a discard sprawl on the stairwell heading to the second floor dungeons. He groaned when touched, and Luna volunteered to remain with him, the lack of confidence inspired by her vacant smile mitigated by the litany of healing spells she began to string off. _Ravenclaw_, he reminded himself.

Another two hallways over and he uncovered a group of five first year Slytherins crouched behind a classroom door. They had stacked several desks around them, a make-shift bunker of wood and nail. One of the girls immediately burst into tears and clutched at Neville's side, crying for her mum. Another of his group stayed to lead the five back to the Room of Requirement.

He found similar situations littered throughout the dungeons, seemingly the ground zero for the attack. A guilt struck him after sending off the fourth group of huddled Slytherins; not he, not any of them had considered to look after the Slytherins. Were they not part of Hogwarts as well? Did he not have classes and meals with them every day as well? Not all were as bigoted as Malfoy, or as bullying as Crabbe and Goyle. Some were just fine, if a little different.

Slytherins like Zabini, and Jerome Dorny who had apparently held off two of the Death Eater's before succumbing to a particular nasty hex that left a bubbling gash circling around his torso. Neville bit down on his lip and stared down the hallway. He didn't know where the Slytherin dormitory was and he doubted any of them would trust him enough to show him the entrance. Still, there were at least a half dozen classrooms in the area that might house yet more frightened students.

"Ernie, can you get Jerome back on your own?" Neville asked.

The Hufflepuff eyed his charge without confidence. "I don't know, whatever that hex was, I don't think we should move him. It looks like it's spreading."

Gingerly, Neville lowered his wand toward the bubbling ooze that continued to sizzle where it sat on Jerome's skin. He considered touching it, if only to test the outcome, and found a wand lowered to his face. His eyes jerked upward and immediately narrowed.

"Malfoy!"

Ernie's wand was already trained and ready. "I would back off if I were you, Draco."

Malfoy sneered, the gesture laced with a frayed exhaustion. "Like you have it in you, Macmillan. And don't touch that, Longbottom. You need salt, it'll counteract the acid until you can get Sprout or Pomfrey in here."

"I said to back off!" Ernie stood carefully, his wand unflinching.

Neville watched with hooded eyes; there was something _damaged_ in the way Malfoy held himself. His arm hung too straight, the limb awkward in its position. Cautiously, he moved his hand to craze the limb. Malfoy stumbled in pain.

Neville straightened and pushed forward, trapping the Slytherin between him and wall. "You're the one responsible for this, aren't you?"

Malfoy's pale eyes widened, a panic settling. "No. . .no, but you see, I had no choice!"

"There's always a choice," Neville scoffed, no stumble or stutter in his words. "You chose to make the wrong one."

"But I didn't—I didn't go through with it, not all of it. I couldn't, in the end." Genuine fear rested there, caught in both Malfoy's words and his gaze. "He'll kill them now, the Dark Lord will kill my parents. I have to warn them."

Neville's hand wavered; there was no lie here, no deceit. Slowly, he lowered his wand and stood back. Behind him, Ernie sputtered. "Neville, what are you doing?"

"There's no point. He can't do any more harm, and if he wants to be with his parents, then. . ." He straightened, giving exit to the door way. "I'm not going to stop him."

Ernie looked incredulous, but nevertheless lowered his wand as well, moving back from the door. Malfoy appeared equally shocked, his eyes darting back and forth as if expecting a trick. Neville wondered briefly if that had always been the way of it, all kindness couched in hidden agendas and subtext. How exhausting if that was how they lived, the Death Eaters and their kind.

Malfoy shuffled to the door, arm grasped in apparent pain. He paused by the door, exhaling slowly. "Your friend, Weasley, he's in the next room. He's hurt."

Neville darted past both boys, crashing through the neighboring door with heavy gasps. He nearly fell, his feet slipping and sliding through the thick liquid that coated the floor. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmed lighting, and then with a horror, he realized what the stickiness under his feet was. Blood; the floor was coated in it. A prone body lay out-stretched in the center, the face beaten beyond recognition and a detached silver hand twitching beside it.

Gagging, Neville forced himself deeper into the room, toward the back where he found another body, propped up against the wall. The shock of red hair identified him immediately, and Neville fell beside him, desperate to check for a moving chest and the sound of breathing. The darkness made it difficult to see—

With a low curse, Neville motioned with his wand. "_Lumos_."

Flooded by light, without a doubt, Ron's chest moved, the room echoing in the faint exhalation that followed the movement. Neville felt his own chest tighten as gratefulness overwhelmed him. His gaze turned to the body in the middle of the room and then back to Ron. That meant then. . .

"They'll kill him if they find out."

* * *

**VI**

* * *

**THE WORLD STILLED**, time slowed, and Hermione found herself powerless to change any of it. Harry stood in the tower window, his face ashen and wounded. Below, so very far below, white robes were buffeted in the wind, the body encased much too still and silent for the life that once touched it. She heard the sound, distantly, an agonized cry of such wretchedness that she cringed from it, but her eyes did not obey. She was forced to watch, to see all that she wished vanished from her. The cloak disguised her, hid her from the room's scrutiny, while the spell prevented her from moving, from speaking. George lay at her feet, unconscious, and but for the faint movement of his chest, she might have fainted herself, so desperate was she to know- to act!

"What did you do?" Harry's voice, full of horror and anger, came lowly from the ledge. He turned, wand outstretched, and marched toward the black-encased wizard whose jaw shook and arms trembled. "_Snape_, what did you do?"

"His wish, his final command-" The words broke into laughter, clipped and hysterical.

Harry seemed unmoved, his gaze unbearably cold without the veil of his glasses to guard the expression. "_Avada kedavra_." His wand sputtered a brief flicker of green light, and Snape's laughter silenced.

"Try again," he demanded, pushing himself forward so that the wand struck him directly in the chest. "Try it again, Potter. This time with _feeling_." A desperate quality overtook the normally sibilant tones. Hermione remembered that one night, over the summer, when she had watched Snape stand in the headquarter's hallway, his face touched by the shadows and light. _No_, she begged mutely, _Please Harry, don't!_

"_Avada kedavra. Avada kedavra! AVADA KEDAVRA!_" With each utterance, the wand jerked, flashes of green light stuttering from its tip. Snape did not flinch, his expression open in his need. This was what he wanted, Hermione realized. He wanted to die, he wanted it.

"I said, with _feeling_. Did you not see what I just did, Potter? I killed your headmaster- I killed a person you loved. I could do it to others. The Weasleys, your little girlfriend. I could take my time with it, slice her open and watch her bleed dry."

Harry shook with the words, his knuckles tightening to a pure white. "Stop it. Stop talking!"

"I could slaughter them one by one. I would make it particularly special for your pet mudblood." Harry's arm stilled, and Hermione's vision began to darken as the spell that held her fought to restrict her will. She had to stop him- she couldn't let Harry become a murderer.

"Don't say it. Leave Hermione al-"

"Why? What could you do about it? I could find her now. Torture her with the _Cruciatus_, drive her to the point where her mind goes mad. She would never read again, never think again. She would be a shell, an empty vessel of nothing but madness and ruin. It would be easy to-" Snape leaned closer, his mouth drawing near to Harry's ear. She could hear nothing of it, but Harry reacted visibly, the wand discarded for the immediacy of the physical.

"You coward!" With a roar, Harry pushed Snape toward the window ledge, dragging him to the precipice. Snape offered no resistance, his expression hidden from Harry but open to Hermione. She could see the pleased acceptance there, the stark relief and sadness. He seemed to see past the cloak, through the invisibility and to her gaze. For an instance, he held it, a lifetime of emotion blanketed in the glance. But she knew he could not see her; he could see nothing but the wall beyond her, and that if she could not break from the hex, Snape would die with his blood on Harry's hands.

She pushed against the spell, felt it crackle around her, and then- But she was not strong enough. She could only watch.

Harry held Snape to the ledge, the ground below still shadowed by the white robes of Albus Dumbledore. He could not forgive it; he could not. It was Snape's fault, all of it. His parents might have been saved had Snape spoken up sooner, told the truth sooner. His father still alive to plant his roses and tell bad jokes. His mother still alive to comb his hair and kiss him good-night. His whole life might have been one of happiness and family, and none of the bitterness and loneliness that had plagued his reality. It was Snape who ruined his chances at happiness when a baby, and Snape who now ruined his chances at happiness as an adult. Without Dumbledore- without Dumbledore. . .

Harry knew. He would never survive that final confrontation. He would surely die.

"You deserve worse, you murderer." A coldness crept into him, an unsettling lack of feeling. It was his tomb again, a stark apathy that left him only desiring a change from the present. He felt assured that nothing else would grant that change as much as Snape's death would. "You deserve a life time of horror."

"I've had it. And now I've earned my release. Now, do _it_, boy. Kill me. Exact your revenge." Snape seemed expectant, almost joyful. It made Harry pause, just long enough for something other than the coldness to seep past his skin. His eyes fell past Snape's exultant gaze to the hazy ground below. He could make no distinction from the white robes that rested against the green of the earth, his vision forcing the two to blur into one solid. And yet impossibly, he could see Dumbledore's face there, aged and unmistakably at peace. There was no surprise or betrayal caught in that final expression, only gratitude.

Near his breast, from a pocket deep within his robes, the mouse stirred.

With a jerk, Harry released his hold on Snape's robes and stood back. "No, I won't. I _won't_."

Snape stared with outrage, palpable frustration raking his stark features into trembling relief. "You fool. . . you fool! Now is not the time for nobility. You should kill me—Do it, kill me!"

Harry resisted and took another step back, spreading his hands in plain surrender. "I'm not like you."

Snape laughed, the tone rising and stretching to fill the room. He drew a hand over his eyes, wiping at the wetness gathered there. When his hand withdrew, all emotion was vanished. He had returned to the mask that Harry had known for the past six years. "Selfish boy. _Stupify._"

The spell wound him tightly, crushing him to the ground. Snape stood overhead, his expression still carefully vacant. He stooped to where Harry lay prone, and using the tip of his wand, opened his robes. The mouse, unaffected by the spell, crept out of Harry's pocket and stepped unflinchingly into Snape's open palm. He replaced the mouse with a thin stretch of wood, wrought of thirteen inches of holly. Harry could only stare, unable to make sense of it.

Snape straightened and then circled the room, pausing only by the portrait that featured a sleeping Dumbledore, the death still too new to grant intelligence to the paint. He lifted a hand to the frame, his lips painfully drawn. "You call it kindness and love, but it is a mask for your selfishness. You asked too much."

Seconds after Snape's departure, the sounds of battle silenced from below. McGonagall was the first to rush in, her eyes trained on first the window, a deep sorrow settling there, and then to where Harry laid bound beneath it. Madame Pomfrey stumbled in shortly after, her wand already making fast work of the gash over his forehead and wounds on his face. He remembered Hermione, distantly, freeing her from the immobilization hex he'd placed to keep her safe and hidden beneath the cloak. There had been no time to do the same for George, who would be forced to sleep out the remainder of the curse that had caught him in the chest.

Once freed from the spell, Hermione clutched at him, her hands firm on his robes and tears wet against his cheek. He felt the beat of her heart against his chest, the warmth of her hair near his nose. Dumbledore was dead, he repeated to himself. Albus Dumbledore was dead. He gripped her shoulders first and then her back, and then fell against her, his best friend of six years, and wept. "_Please_, don't leave me again."

"Oh _Harry._ I'm so sorry."

He wept, the sadness equal parts for the loss of his mentor and guardian, and equal parts for the future he knew he must now face. The weight of that future threatened to suffocate. _A__nd either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. _He shuddered. Hermione drew back far enough to grasp his face, her fingers gentle.

"You did the right thing, not killing him. You're not a murderer," she told him.

_But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not._

Harry thought of the mouse that had saved him from the tomb, and the wand in his pocket. He thought and considered. "No, I am not."

* * *

_half empty_

**TWELVE**

**Difference Always Matters**

_by:_

_carpetfibers_

_a.k.a_

_s. stewart_


	13. THIRTEEN

_**Disclaimer: **__All belongs to JKR._

_**A/N: **__Much longer note at the end. Thank you to every one who stuck around, and after a ridiculously long time, DAM is finally over._

* * *

**Difference Always Matters**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

* * *

**THIRTEEN**

_the ripples stretch, lingering_

* * *

**THE SILENCE THRUMMED **angrily near the base of her skull. There were no distant sounds of chatter or laughter. The air teamed with sizzling hisses of remnant magic, the emotions used sending out constant aftershocks that sparked against the castle walls. It reminded her distantly of fireworks, of twilight sparklers and late summer heat lightning. She had stopped feeling the pain in her leg a hour earlier, when the last of the clean-up crew had decided to move to the dungeons, the front hall given up on.

It was stupid, she knew, to keep searching when so clearly everything worth saving had been destroyed. The floor hung littered with tiny pebbles, their numbers unending, of four varying colors. As the light faded, so did the pebbles' differences. In the gloom, they all looked black.

No one could remember seeing him in the hallway when the wall collapsed. It was far more logical that he was stunned and unconscious, or caught in a leg-locking curse, stranded in one of the dungeon classrooms. The castle ghosts and portraits were searching them now. Harry had been vanished away to the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey adamant that he be thoroughly examined. Which left Hermione behind, the shock of what had transpired in the office tower niggling and edging against her thoughts, demanding attention. She refused to grant it quarter, not yet, not when there was still work to do- not when there was the hall incomplete.

Hermione couldn't just leave it. She couldn't just move past it and declare it 'finished' when so many of the crumbled pieces of ramparts could be hiding an injured Ron. The speck of striped sweater, peaking out from beneath that tumble of stone and ruin there- yes, that piece there, it could belong to a larger piece, shaped in the form of a splayed arm or still breathing chest.

Hermione could not just leave and compose herself to an evening meal or recouping in the common room. This was her fault, after all. It was her fault for having failed- for having spent so much time and energy on an endeavor that had done nothing to help Harry. It was her fault for having not listened each of those times Harry had come to her, warm with warning and angry with suspicion about Snape. Why hadn't she stopped, just for a minute, and _listened_? Would it have been so difficult to focus on someone- _something_- else for once? Why did it have to be _her _plan that would save the day? Because she was the _smart_ one? Because she was the one who had always just _'read it in a book somewhere_'? Maybe, just maybe, if she had listened, really paid attention, then maybe she would have connected the dots where Harry hadn't. If she hadn't run off and lost two months on a goose chase with George Weas-

"Hermione, you're crying," he said, his shirt still singed where the curse had hit him. He winced as he slowly approached, left leg dragging slightly.

She lifted a shaking hand to her cheek. Grit and damp bore against her fingers; she inhaled deeply. "It's just nerves," she explained, grateful that her voice sounded even. "I haven't found anything yet."

"He's going to be fine, you know. It would take a whole lot more than a pack of Death Eaters and some broken walls to do in a Weasley, let alone Ron." The levity was painfully forced, and it took all of her remaining energy to not stumble the few steps separating them and fall into his arms, which stood awkwardly parted, as if waiting for her eventual surrender. Her stubbornness, a personality fault thrown in her face more than once, saved her from the weakness.

"There's only this part of the hall left to check." Resistant, she kept her back turned to him. She missed the way his lips trembled, or how the large bruise near his temple flexed in frustration. "I can't stop now." And she couldn't, not when Ron was missing and Harry so thin and worn, not when Headmaster Dumbledore- The rubble grew blurry, her vision overwhelmed by the flood of tears that gathered. "I _can't_."

"You can't fix this." His voice was nearer now, a quiet pause from behind her back. She felt her skin tingling from where her fingers grazed the smooth surface of her wand. She ignored him and levitated another of the larger pieces to a growing pile near an empty tapestry.

"This isn't your fault," he continued. A heavy heat soared through her when his hand settled over her shaking hand, her wand gently removed during the slight touch.

"I know it's not my fault." She crossed her arms over her chest and carefully separated herself from him. "I know it's not _entirely_ my fault. But George-" Hermione couldn't reach his gaze, feeling, intractably, that if she did, this coursing _something_ of feeling would overwhelm her entirely. "Some of it is. Some tiny part is my responsibility. If I had been around, if I hadn't been so distracted-"

"So I'm distracting, am I?" George interrupted, an undertone of hesitancy in his words missing her notice.

She whirled around stiffly, her eyes sticky with tired tears. "You think now is the time to joke? You really think this is the appropriate time and place to have a laugh? My god, George, your _brother _may very well be buried somewhere in this castle, barely alive or-" she stuttered over the words, refusing to give voice to them. Anger was slowly replacing the numb hurt and guilt she'd been clinging to, and George was so close and so very convenient. She gave not mind to the fairness of her accusation or ire.

"You think I don't know that?" He was quick to return the tone, something plainly snapping. "But you standing here digging around a bunch of debris is hardly being useful. You're helping no one."

"Then just leave me alone!" She snatched back her wand and then made the dangerous mistake of glancing upward. He'd made no attempt to change his clothes or clean his face. Soil from their dash through the tunnel still caked in his hair, the pale red overcome by the dirt and gore of the day. The right side of his face stretched in a dark purple that would surely swell if left untreated. Her eyes fell to his chest, to the spot of blistered flesh that flashed through the fabric's many tears.

Her vehemence left her. "You're still hurt."

George side-stepped her lifted fingers. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Hermione insisted. The rubble still required her attention, but George's needs were more immediate, more concrete. "I don't know that I'd trust myself with the spells right now, but I'm sure we can borrow some essence of dittany from the infirmary. I can be right back-"

"Hermione, stop."

She made the mistake a second time and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. His weak smile caught her sharply, a tenderness to it that made her step forward, lips trembling. There was still so much that needed to be done, duties and responsibilities and a literal world of concerns that required her attention, and yet she forgot it all with that one look. The spark of spontaneity George managed to inspire in her struck out destructively, and with a brash callousness she didn't realize herself capable of, she pushed aside her thoughts of Ron and Harry and the school, and just let herself be.

"Geroge, I think-" But a sound drew away her attention, the tenuous line of thought lost as she whirled around and saw a small group of bedraggled students picking their way up from the dungeons. Neville and Ernie, a few younger Slytherins whose names escaped her at present, and then there, in the midst of them, being carried on a makeshift stretcher, a shock of red hair. She heard nothing of George's words as she dashed the short distance separating her from the group, missing as his hand grabbed into the empty air for her.

The Slytherins paused as she reached them, and Neville tried to warn her before she saw too clearly. "Hermione, it looks bad, but he's okay-" But Hermione could only stare, a sharp horror caught in her throat. Ron was too pale, too still, and his clothes, his hair- even his hands were coated in dark stains, the color a stagnant red. She felt her knees buckle, and it was only Neville's hand on her back that prevented her from stumbling to the ground.

"He's not- Neville, Ron's not-" Her lips shook, the whole of her body trembling. Oh god, Ron wasn't- he couldn't be!

"He's fine, Hermione. Well, he's not _fine_, but he's alive. He was awake a little earlier, apparently had a run in with a Death Eater, someone he called Wormtail. But he's okay- the professors said he was well enough for us to take him up to Pomfrey, so you see there's no need to worry." Neville's hand changed to grip her shoulders, the touch barely registering. Hermione felt numb.

"He's okay? But there's so much blood. . ." She felt like throwing up, relief and shock warring with her stomach. She shuddered.

"Fine. I'm fine." Ron's voice echoed weakly, hoarse and broken. "Blood's not mine. Malfoy. . ."

"Malfoy was the one who killed Wormtail," Neville supplied hurriedly, voice lacking none of its normal hesistancy. "It's his blood on Ron. The whole classroom was coated with it." He gestured to Ernie to continue on, the Slytherins following behind him.

"I told you, Granger, it would take more than a Death Eater to kill our ickle Ronnikins." George's use of the hated nickname held none of its normal taunt, only a relieved affection. "We're a hardy lot, Weasleys. It would take at least an army or three to make a real dent."

Ron coughed as the laugh petered out and choked in his throat. "No jokes yet."

Hermione felt her eyes fill, the wet gathering and threatening to overcome her. "Oh Ron, I'm so sorry. I should have been there. I'm so, so sorry-"

"No apologies either," he managed after another spasm of coughing. Ron smiled up at her weakly, and gestured to a tidy pile of wooden fragments cradled across his lap. "Broke my wand."

She lost her battle against the tears, overwhelmed. "Your poor wand."

Ron coughed again, his words lost in the heavy sputtering. Hermione wiped at her cheeks. "Okay, enough chatting here. Let's get you up to the infirmary. Harry will want to talk to you."

Neville stumbled beside her, and it was her turn to steady him. He batted away her concern. "Just tired. Can you take care of the locomotoring? I need to take care of something." Neville didn't wait for her immediate reply, pushing off on the charm and making for the nearest hallway.

"Did you say Harry?" Ron attempted to sit up in the stretcher, the movement sending an obvious spasm of pain through him. He gasped audibly, and Hermione sent George a worried glance.

"He's in the infirmary, too. I didn't have time- well, there are things we'll need to talk about." So many things, Hermione realized. A swarm of things that involved Dumbledore and Snape, Voldemort and Harry, and a very near future that she felt certain would lead toward the final confrontation Harry refused to talk about.

Somehow, she felt that he would no longer refuse that conversation now.

George remained silent as they made their way up the staircases and hallways to the infirmary, his wand steadied to augment her spell. Hermione attempted to fill in the quiet with a breakdown of her activities during the attack, stumbling over the Shrieking Shack and avoiding explaining George's presence altogether. Halfway through, Ron took her hand, holding it awkwardly and yet with a carefulness she wouldn't have expected from him. He squeezed once, gently, just beyond the infirmary door, a cacophony of voices and Madame Pomfrey's shouted directions escaping from the room and flooding into the hall.

"I can walk in, if you'll help." George stepped in to offer his shoulder, gingerly sliding his brother's arm over his shoulders and lifting him to his feet. Hermione stepped to follow behind them, and then stopped, Ron having slipped out of his brother's hold. He stood on his own, but barely, looking very much as if a slight breeze would topple him.

"I thought I was going to die," Ron said simply, and stricken, Hermione's eyes sought out George's, unconsciously looking for support. George stared back at her, his expression caught in a passive sadness that confused her. "I thought I was going to die, and at the end of those thoughts, there was you, Hermione. And I knew it, I love you."

That breeze came, and Ron stumbled heavily back into George's arms, this time taking the proffered shoulder willingly. Ron smiled, unembarrassed, and let himself be led into the infirmary. Hermione could only stare, fingers pressed to her lips, and cheeks aflame. Ron loved her; the thought warmed her and sent her skin tingling. And yet-

Her gaze shifted. It was George she saw through the doorway; it was George and not her best friend of six years that she saw and found herself unwilling to look away.

* * *

**II**

* * *

**HARRY STOOD IN** the office and forced himself to consider the landing, the wide expanse of the window beckoning for a closer glance, a sharper incline to view. He stood still and told himself to remember this room exactly as it was, remember what it meant for a place to be incomplete- to be adrift. The office was just any other place without its owner, without the tall, thin frame of Albus Dumbledore to fill its space, corral its circular walls, and provide it with name and designation.

"Mr. Potter, if you'll follow me." Professor McGonagall's brusque voice pulled him away from the window and the desk still littered with unopened sweets. She led him into a back room, toward a large boudoir, its upper panels pushed aside to display what looked like an over-sized goblet, the liquid in a constant state of movement: Dumbledore's pensieve.

"Professor?" Harry looked to his Head of House for guidance.

McGonagall sighed, the sound lacking her typical feeling of bustle and energy. "The Headmaster left instructions that you were to brought here, that you would know what to look for. He wrote that you would understand the task that waited for you."

Her normally sharp voice softened into one of sympathy. "This responsibility of yours, Mr. Potter, do know that you needn't do it on your own. You have many here who would help."

Harry felt the temptation physically, his throat thickening as he swayed heavily toward the great relief it would give him to not have to play at being an adult- to ask for the help that was being so readily offered to him. He opened his mouth, longing for the words to come and then quailing. This was his to bear; the prophecy was exact. The Order, the Professors- they would all try to convince him otherwise, look for alternatives that would spare him, that would prevent a direct confrontation. "Thank you, but I know what I need to do."

McGonagall nodded and sighed again, evidently disappointed. With a click of her heels, she turned to leave. "Professor McGonagall?" She paused, waiting.

"Can you ask for Ron and Hermione to meet me when I'm done? I'll need to talk to them." He thought briefly of including Ginny, remembering how she had cried and clung to him when he was finally released from the infirmary. Her delicate features, caught distinctly in his mind's eye, would surely darken when he told her that he was to leave again. She would want to come, she would beg to. He could bring her, but-

He bent toward the pensieve, lips drawn tightly. For this, he needed Ron and Hermione. No one else. The cloudstuff that made-up the pensieve twisted and contorted, all the pieces of a storm minus the sound and lightning. He took a deep breath and lowered his face; he wrapped his thoughts on a single name:

_Tom Riddle_.

* * *

**III**

* * *

**GEORGE REMAINED SEATED**, even after the funeral had finished. He kept waiting for the hopelessness that clung like a stone in his stomach to change to another form: anger, grief, loss- anything other than the heavy, intractable sense of being left behind, of no longer having a purpose. He recognized a selfishness in his feelings, and he wished to discuss them with someone. But Fred had been sniffling and pretending at allergies all morning, and his mother kept reaching for his hand, her tears more honestly evident. And whenever George allowed his gaze to go any place but the white marble tomb that still crackled with white bursts of flame, he saw the two of _them, _hands entwined. It was only during those brief seconds of wandering attention that he felt something other than the stone in his stomach.

Something other than abysmal pessimism.

He watched as Harry leaned forward to speak into Ginny's ear, watched as her expression turned from white-washed sadness to patent dejection. George could well imagine what was being said, what sort of excuse Harry was dreaming up to explain why he had to leave. Hermione had done the same with him, in hesitating words, uncomfortable with the half-truths she had offered and lingering over promises of seeing him during the summer, at the wedding, at the Burrow.

George knew, though, knew that she was leaving. The three of them, united once again in concerted effort, were going on a journey, and just like his sister, he was not to be included. He closed his eyes and turned his face skyward, the light warmth of the unconscionable beautiful summer day cloaking his pale features in a welcomed dousing of sunlight. His black dragonskin suit, worn in solidarity with Fred, in blanket appeasement of whatever wounds or betrayals might still linger there in his twin's mind, rejected the warmth, and George longed to be free of it. The melancholic strands of the merpeople's song sifted through the air still, and he wondered, briefly and distantly, what the bereaved might think of him stripping then and there and throwing himself to the lake, where the water and the song might disguise the ugliness of his feelings from view.

He felt, somehow, that Dumbledore would have liked that, a sudden mob of spontaneous swimming resulting from his funeral. He imagined the old wizard tossing his cap and launching into the water, the giant squid joining in for the play. George felt like laughing, and the tears that gathered beneath his eyelids, the stone finally loosening, were not born purely of sadness. He felt a strange sort of relief in it, an incongruent hopefulness.

"George?"

He straightened in his seat, palms quick to his eyes, and forced a smile. "Granger, there you are." Black did not suit her, the color washing her into a paleness and plainness he disliked immediately. The only part of her that felt real was her hair, bothered and disheveled by the breeze.

She tried to smile in return, her eyes trained toward the left, obviously searching for something she had previously memorized. "George, I-"

"We made a pretty good team there for a while, Granger. Who'd have thought?" George interrupted, purposely. He had no wish to revisit the memory that hung in the back of his mind, of the Shrieking Shack and the way she had smelled when pressed up close.

"I did, from the very beginning. You never give yourself enough credit." Her smile stretched, the gesture heavy and awkward.

"Yeah, well," he shoved his hands in his pockets, unable to block the redness that warmed his throat. "You've always been a champion for the underdog."

Her lips twisted unhappily. "George, listen, there are things I need to tell you, things that ought to be said. About you, now- I feel, well, I don't rightly know what it is I feel."

He ignored the way his heart jumped at her words; he ignored the way he began to hope for things he hadn't fully realized even existed until that very second. Distantly, he remember their kiss, the way her lips had wilted beneath his, soft and tasting, inexplicably, of expectation. "Sure you do. Ron loves you, and you love Ron."

"Well, yes, I _love_ Ron, but-" she broke off, her brown eyes confused. "There's a difference, and George, when we kissed-"

"I was thinking. . . we should really forget that happened." He kept his voice light and tried for that teasing tone she so disliked. "It was in the heat of the moment, we had just gone through a big disappointment. I took a lesson from you and read it up in a book. We were reacting to the situation and apparently went the hormonal route for it."

His stomach sank as her face contorted first in hurt and then into a faded embarrassment.

"Of course, I should have known better. Right." The sunlight caught the swell of her cheek, a faint pattern of sun-born freckles layered there.

"Right." His fingers cramped painfully in their grip on his thighs, the fists hidden from view deep in his pockets. That pain thickened as he saw his younger brother approach from the aisle, bandages recently removed. "Listen, I need to go. Fred's expecting me back at the shop and there's inventory waiting for me, so. . ."

"Oh, sure, of course. Er, I guess," she bit her lip before lifting her chin. "I guess it's good-bye then."

George nodded and watched as she trailed away, her eyes staying on his intentionally carefree smile. He continued smiling even as he saw her hand slide into the waiting one of his brother. He even managed a generous wave of his arm when Ron turned to salute. He watched as the two walked to the edge of the gathering and with a simultaneous pop, the two disappeared from view. The smile vanished with them and weakly, he fell back into his lawn seat, his arms lifting to cradle his suddenly aching head. He barely registered the friction of air across from him.

"I nearly forgot!"

He looked up, unable to resist himself, when he heard her voice. "Her-mione?" he stuttered, her name slipping from his lips.

She dug into her cloak, wrestling with the fabric, until victory brought her hands back into view with a small silver package. "It's nothing special, and it's late by almost two months, but still, I wanted to give it to you before I left. So, here," she shoved the box into his lap. "Happy belated Birthday."

Wordlessly, he stared down at the gift before slowly undoing the paper. Beneath the silver covering, rested an amulet, its design wrought in a coarse black metal. His silence prompted her explanation.

"I know it's not very neat, but the books all said protection runes are more potent in iron, so . . . promise me you'll wear it?" He heard the worry in her voice, and still wordless, he nodded. "Good. I should get back now, Harry and Ron are waiting for me to pack- um, that is-"

George couldn't place the source of the wretchedness that tugged at his stomach. Hermione was so predictably herself. She was about to take off on a hunt to try and find a way to destroy Voldemort, and yet she still couldn't manage a proper lie to her friends. "It's okay, I won't ask you. Go on then."

She stepped back hesitantly, her eyes still clouded. "George, I'll miss you."

"I'll-"

He paused, unsure of what he wanted to return with. He would miss her single-minded determination that so easily translated into stubbornness. He would miss how poorly she responded to his teasing; he would miss the undeserved faith she put in his abilities. He would miss the way she looked at him, with such confidence and that touch of exasperation. He would miss the scent her skin gave off, her hair thick with it, of soap and earth and a comforting familiarity. He would miss her, and worry, and in the end, he would still be forced to wait. His place was not at her side- not this time, not this adventure, and if he were to be completely honest, a habit he had avoided until he began to know her, he would probably never take that position by her side again.

He closed his eyes, swallowed once, and then lifted his gaze, eyes clear from all that he felt. "I'll see you later then."

George did not watch as she disapparated a second time. Instead, he picked up his wand, and two brief words later, the amulet was snug against his chest, the metal warm on his skin. He tucked his wand away, gathered his discarded robes, and soon, too, vanished into a new destination.

There was a future waiting, somewhere there in the distance, and no one knew what it might bring.

* * *

_the ripples stretch, lingering_

**THIRTEEN**

_by: s. stewart_

_a.k.a._

_carpetfibers_

**Difference Always Matters**

**END**

* * *

_**A/N: **So, once upon a time, I started this story with the intent to finish it off in a few short months. I had a neat and nice outline, loved the idea- in fact, fell prey to that typical writer's folly of liking an idea a bit too much- and dedicated myself to prompt updates. Which quickly failed. I veered off of the outline, got caught up in the ideas and revelations shared in the HBP, and found myself discouraged. I think I went two years without updating, maybe it was longer, before finally giving it another go._

_Admittedly, I had the full and total intention of resurrecting Sirius. But after HBP, I no longer liked that idea. I thought, perhaps, what would happen if all that work and effort resulted in a failure? What would that mean? And finally decided to go with that. There were subplots that I had wanted to incorporate, smaller characters that I planned on playing a larger part. I even had intended to have this encompass the seventh year as well. I soon realized, upon my second attempt to finish DAM, that those subplots and ideas were better served for a more mature, older crew of HP characters. And so I have a sequel, of sorts, that I plan on writing._

_(Incidentally, if you have any questions regarding the evolution of DAM, let me know! I'll be happy to answer/explain/point to the eventual sequel in response.)_

_For those of you who might feel disappointed by this ending, by the lack of firm romance, I apologize. I realized upon picking DAM back up, that as I had grown older, the type of romance I would want to write needed older characters. In a large way, DAM became a prequel to what I really wanted to write, a story that I've been far more excited about writing than finishing DAM to be honest. As both a teaser/summary for the upcoming story- whose title I've yet to decide on- here you go:_

_"__Take one part controversial election, two parts unwilling bridesmaid, 1/2 part dangerous serial killer, and mix in far too many parts George Weasley, and Hermione Granger finds that returning to the Veil might be the easiest part of her week yet."_

_I intend on writing at least half of this sequel before posting anything and would love the help of a beta, both in terms of content/grammar. If you're interested or willing, please pm me, and I'll be in touch._

_In closing, I owe a huge amount of thanks and gratitude to the many reviewers and readers who've supported me through the years. Your thoughts, feedback, and numerous alert reminders have encouraged me immensely, and it's probably in large part to this sort of support that I did not leave DAM in permanent suspension. It finally got an ending, and that's because of all of you. Thanks again!_

_-carpetfibers_


End file.
